


a more perfect Union

by scifisis



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:51:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 42,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifisis/pseuds/scifisis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Abbie and Ichabod’s partnership is assessed, debated, and then eventually amended. A transition in four acts. Spoilers for the season 2 finale. Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

PART I

* * *

 

 

            Before they even make it to the cabin, Abbie is already steeling herself for what will follow. The ride seems to take too long despite the negligible distance and more than once she catches Irving and Jenny casting surreptitious glances in the rearview. Both of them had offered up sincere apologies prior to leaving the old town hall but now they let the silence lay.

            When the cabin is in view and Jenny throws the jeep into park, Crane unbuckles his seatbelt, murmuring his gratitude for the ride. He closes the door behind him and three pairs of eyes watch as he comes around the car.

            “Poor son of a bitch,” Irving says softly. Abbie lets out a tight breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

            “I was going to take Frank to his family. You got this?” Jenny asks.

            Abbie nods, eyes still fixed on Crane’s slow ascent into the cabin. “I got this.”

            “We can stay, if you think it’d help,” Irving adds, eyes full of concern. It’s so good to have him back.

            Abbie smiles a little then even though her heart isn’t in it. “I’m sure you’re eager to see Macy and Cynthia. Go on.”

            Abbie waits until Jenny has backed out of the makeshift drive and is disappearing down the lane and into the woods before she turns to climb the porch stairs.

            Darkness greets her when she pulls the door open. Crane is standing in the middle of the room, back to her, as though he’d forgotten where he was going. The grand grimoire hangs loosely from the pale fingers of his right hand.

            Abbie shrugs out of her coat, drapes it over her usual chair at the table and flicks the light switch. Crane doesn’t react when the room brightens. Abbie approaches him and takes hold of the grimoire, sliding it gently from limp fingers.

            “Think you could eat?” Abbie asks him. Crane’s eyelids flutter as he shakes his head. It isn’t the response she wanted, but it _is_ a response and Abbie will take what she can get. “All right. Why don’t you sit down?”

            He lowers himself onto the couch robotically, saying nothing else. Abbie heads to the kitchen, setting the grimoire next to a pile of Corbin’s old research that’s gathering dust on the dining room table.

            She remembers not eating for days after her mother died. When they took Jenny from her, Abbie had to force herself to eat, if only to coat her stomach so she could numb herself with pills. Then Corbin died and Abbie had wanted to die right along with him because she didn’t know how she could take another step in a world that didn’t have him in it. If it hadn’t been for Crane…well.

            Abbie knows a little something about loving imperfect people and losing them.

            She considers the tea kettle poised at the ready on the range, then reaches instead for the cabinet where Crane keeps his liquor because who the fuck is she kidding. She chooses a bottle of untouched Bacardi 151 Jenny had gotten him last year and gets two glasses.

            “You must think me a fool.”

            Abbie turns from the sink. Crane is perched on the edge of the couch where she left him, but his eyes are a million miles away. “Must I?”

            “You were always hesitant to extend your trust to Katrina,” he says, “and there were many occasions you attempted to voice your concerns regarding her to me. You saw what I did not.”

            She is suddenly reminded of a similar conversation she’d had a few hours ago—or centuries ago, really—while walking down a wooded path to the salvation of Fredericks manor.

            _The seeds must have been there. How did I not see it?_

            Abbie pushes back from the counter and heads back to where he is. “Crane,” she begins, “no one could have seen this coming. Not me, not you. Not anyone.”

            “I could have.” Pale fingers curl themselves tightly into fists on his lap. “I _should_ have.”

            “Crane.” His eyes dart in her direction as she takes a seat next to him.

            “We all had a choice,” Crane says again, only now he sounds so much less sure. “Katrina chose, as Henry chose. Do you know what he said to me just before he died?”

            Abbie bites her lip and thinks please, _please_ don’t, Crane, please don’t do this to yourself—

            “‘I have no regrets’. After everything he did, to regret nothing…” Crane shakes his head again, eyes looking anywhere but at her. “An unnatural thing it is, for a parent to hate his child. I swore to myself when my father disowned me that I was to be different, that my children would never know the pain of having to bear a father’s revulsion.” He chokes out a sour, ugly little laugh. “Yet here I am, regarding my son the way my father regarded his. This is to be my legacy, then. A broken line of hatred.”

            “Legacies are left by the people who have the last word,” Abbie says quietly. “We’re going to have the last word, Crane.”

            “That too would have been lost had you not gone after Katrina when she cast her spell.” His lips thin into a pale, hard line. “She would have undone everything, all the work and sacrifices we and countless others before us have made to stop the apocalypse. Katrina would have brought doom upon the world just to see me dead.”

            “She was your wife,” murmurs Abbie. “You loved her.”

            “I did,” he says, and it’s _awful_ , the emptiness in his voice. “I would have rent the world in twain to keep her from harm. There is nothing I would not have done for her, no sacrifice I would not have made at an instant if she needed it of me. I loved her and believed I was loved in return.”

            “You were, Crane. She saved you from the Horseman.”

            “Whatever she may have felt for me, it clearly was not compelling enough to draw her from Henry. It took so little time for her to renounce all that we were, all that we…” Crane’s breath rattles as he sucks it in. “Am I truly so easy to cast aside?”

            Abbie reaches for his hands because she can’t stand to see them shake a moment longer. Crane’s fingers tangle in hers and _knot_ , like her grip is all that’s keeping him anchored to the earth.

            When he finally brings himself to speak, his voice is no longer toneless. “It should not hurt like this. Not after what she—what they both did to me. To us.”

            Abbie’s heart breaks. “Crane.”

            “She would have killed you,” he continues; Abbie doubts he even heard her. “She would have slain you before my very eyes if I hadn’t…”

            “It’s all right,” she says quietly, squeezing his hands. “It’s all right.”

            “It _isn’t_ ,” he bites out. “It should not _hurt_ , I should not be—”

            “Stop.” Abbie loosens their hands to press hers against his shoulders. “Look at me,” she says gently, squeezing his arms. “Ichabod, look at me.”

            His eyes, when they finally meet hers, are wet.

            “You have every right to mourn,” Abbie tells him in a low, firm voice. “You hear me?”

            Crane doesn’t say anything. Before the tears can even fall, Abbie has gathered him into her arms.

            By the time Crane finally allows himself some sleep, the sun is down and Abbie has just enough energy left to shoot Jenny a quick text update before she curls up in the guest room. She rises first the next morning and after an obscenely long shower, she decides that she’s ravenous.

            Abbie is buttering toast when Crane appears, somehow looking more tired but also far less empty.

            “Thought the smell of bacon might getcha,” Abbie says in greeting, tossing him a glance over her shoulder.

            “You stayed.” Crane sounds surprised.

            “We’ve got bacon,” she continues, brandishing a pair of tongs, “eggs, toast, and if you give me another few minutes, pancakes. And tea, of course. Any of this tempting?”

            “Yes. Please.” He doesn’t specify which so Abbie puts a little bit of everything on a plate and motions for him to sit. “You did not have to stay, Lieutenant.”

            She smiles, passing him a mug. “Tea’s hot. Be careful.”

            Crane’s fingers curl around it, brushing hers. “Thank you, Abbie,” he says, so softly she almost doesn’t hear him. She watches as he spears a hunk of scrambled egg with his fork, lifts it to his mouth, and takes the first step.

            Abbie turns back to face the stove and busies herself with the pancakes so Crane won’t see her cry.

 

* * *

 

            Crane spends the majority of the next two days asleep. Abbie makes sure he at least tries to eat when he wakes up and brushes off his attempts at apologizing when he can’t. The third morning Abbie rises to find him at the dining room table, elbow deep in their research.

            “If what Grace Dixon says is true—that the war is indeed unfinished—then we must be vigilant,” he says in response to a question Abbie never asked him.

            She joins him at the table, watching him rifle through manuscripts and missives and the notes they had made with single-minded focus. She occupies herself reading Grace’s journal and there is silence for one hour, then another. Silence, but not calm.

            When Crane goes still, Abbie glances up from the journal. Between them sits the grimoire, a heavy splash of black against the wood of the table. He is contemplating it intently, muscles in his jaw tensing. Abbie takes a breath and holds it.

            It happens so fast: in a single, swift movement, Crane’s arms come over the table and sweep everything off to the side. Books and files go flying. The grimoire falls to the ground, loose leaves of paper fluttering down to follow in its wake. He makes a sound like he did when he pulled the knife from Katrina’s body and covers his face with his hands.

            Abbie has never felt more powerless in her life.

            “I do not understand,” Crane says some time later, when he’s calmed and Abbie has moved them to the couch. The fire flickering in the hearth casts his face in shadows. “I simply do not _understand_.”

            “We rarely do,” Abbie tells him. “It’s been almost twenty-five years since my father walked out and I still don’t understand why he did it. The best we can do is try to survive.”

            “I’ve been fucked over by exes in the past,” says Jenny when Abbie calls her a couple days later, “but this is some next level shit. How’s he doing?”

            “He’s…struggling,” Abbie settles on. “He’s trying to make sense of it.”

            “That’s a quick way to drive yourself insane,” replies Jenny. “Should we—I don’t know, maybe get him somebody to talk to? Professionally, I mean.”

            “I’m honestly not sure.” They’re going to have to get a shrink in the know at some point because if the apocalypse continues on in this vein, Abbie herself will need somebody to talk to.

            “You doing okay?” Jenny inquires, like she’d been following Abbie’s train of thought.

            “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” She bites the inside of her cheek but the small shock of pain does nothing to distract her from the rising swell of anger.

            “Abbie.”

            “I hate that he has to deal with this,” she hisses. “I absolutely hate it. If I could take some of his pain and bear it myself, I would.”

            “Oh, Abbie.” Jenny sighs. “Frank’s been asking after him. I’m sure you could use some groceries. Want us to swing by? If he’s up for it, that is.”

            That night, at Crane’s request, she breaks the seal on the Bacardi.

            “Remember: partners means no judgment,” Abbie tells him as she pours. “As much as you want.”

            They nurse their first glasses in silence, watching the fire. After a time, Crane clears his throat. “Your sister is well? Presuming that is who you were speaking to on the phone earlier.”

            “It was and she is. Just worried about you. Frank, too. They want to visit.”

            “I see.” Crane thumbs the rim of his glass. “I fear I shall be very poor company. It shames me that you have had to endure my melancholy.”

            “Crane, you lost your wife and your son in the same fucking day. You’re entitled to a little melancholy. Frank and Jenny more than understand. And so do I.” Abbie downs her glass, wincing at the burn. “I can tell her no if you aren’t ready.”

            Crane weighs his response, sipping the rum. “Perhaps it would be good to see them. What is it?” he adds, frowning at her growing smile.

           “You took another step,” she says, refilling her glass and clinking it with his. She stops at two, but Crane keeps going and she lets him.

 

* * *

 

 

            The first thing Jenny does when Crane opens the door is pull him into a long, hard hug. Abbie helps Irving with the groceries in the meantime.

            “He doesn’t look half bad,” he says when they get to the kitchen.

            “There are ups and downs.”

            “And you’ve been here with him this whole time?” She gives a half shrug. “You’re a good person, Abbie. He doesn’t know how lucky he is.”

            “Don’t spread that around. Cynthia and Macy doing good?”

            “As good as can be expected. Still wary, but heading in the right direction,” Irving says with a little smile. He glances back at the dining room table, once more laden with all their research. After Crane passed out last night, Abbie had finally cleaned up and put everything back on the table. Everything except for the grimoire, which she tucked away in the desk drawer, safely out of sight.

            “So I assume everything’s been quiet on the end of days side?” Irving asks.

            “So far.”

            “It’s not gonna stay that way, is it?”

            “I don’t have that kind of luck.” But until Abbie sees Crane through this, evil can go fuck itself for all she cares.

            Jenny comes striding into the kitchen then, Crane at her heels. “C’mere. You’re gonna love this.” She reaches for a bag and pulls out a cake box, which she uncovers with a flourish.

            Crane peers down into it, wrinkling his nose. “It is red.”

            “Red velvet,” Jenny declares, rummaging in the silverware drawer. “This is the single best thing you will ever taste in your lifetime. Both of them. Ever. It’s an orgasm on a fork.” Crane splutters and turns as red as the cake. “I’m serious. Try it and tell me I’m lying.”

            “She’s not lying,” Abbie cosigns when Crane hesitates, sidling up next to Jenny because if he’s not eating it, she damn sure will.

            Abbie scoops up a forkful and makes a show of groaning when the taste explodes over her tongue. She swallows and licks her lips, glancing at Crane to find his eyes fixed to her mouth, skin still flushed. She smirks and passes him the fork.

            He takes a tentative bite and his whole expression changes. “Not an entirely inapt description.”

            Abbie bursts into laughter and Crane gives her a sheepish smile. It’s small and fleeting but it’s the first she’s seen since Katrina.

            When the groceries are put away, Irving stretches. “It’s a beautiful day. I’m going to get some air. Join me, Crane?”

            Irving holds the door open for Crane, Irving shooting Abbie a knowing look as he passes through it. When they are both out on the porch, Abbie tells Jenny, “That’s the first time he’s gone outside.”

            “He looks pretty good for a guy digesting the fact that his wife turned out to be a lunatic,” says Jenny.

            “I think that’s the crux of it all, actually. Not the death, but the betrayal.”

            “I almost want to hurt Frank for making me lead him away from the bell,” Jenny replies mildly. “I would’ve loved to be there when you two confronted Katrina. I’d have shot her right then. Multiple times.”

            “I wanted to,” Abbie mutters, rubbing the back of her neck. It’s something she’ll never say to Crane.

            “How much longer are you going to stay?”

            _As long as he needs_ , she thinks. “I’ve still got a few vacation days left.” Abbie isn’t sure what it is she’s looking for, what sign she wants from him that will indicate that she can leave with an easy mind. “Honestly at this point, it’s as much for my peace of mind as it is for him. If I wasn’t here, I’d be calling him twelve times a day to check up.”

            “Yeah.” Jenny straightens. “At any rate, I’m glad he doesn’t have to do this alone.”

            Abbie hums in her throat, eyes finding the cake box. She arches an eyebrow at Jenny. “Orgasm on a fork? Really?”

            “It’s too much fun getting him flustered. I don’t know why you don’t do it more often.”

            “Because I’m not a sadist.”

            “Your loss. And red velvet is the best pick-me-up you can have outside of tequila. Which I have too, incidentally. So,” Jenny continues, plopping down on the couch, “when are you going to tell me about time-traveling?”

            Abbie is in the middle of the story when Irving and Crane come back inside, Irving declaring his intention to cook them dinner if Crane would have them over, which he accepts. Crane settles into the armchair and listens as Abbie finishes recounting her experience in the past.

            When she’s done, Jenny leans back and whistles. “Land of the free my _ass_. Not in town twenty minutes before you got clapped in irons for the high crime of walking around. Shame it was you time traveling and not Stacey Dash.”

            Abbie snorts. “It all turned out well.”

            “In spite of the odds,” Crane says in a strangely tight voice.

            Abbie looks over at him to find that a crease has formed between his eyebrows. “You sacrificed yourself for me, you know,” she intones. “It was incredibly brave.”

            Crane makes a noncommittal sound, eyes narrowed. When the silence stretches on too long, Jenny stands up. “Drinks? Drinks, definitely.” Abbie watches her retreat to the kitchen before returning her attention to Crane.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “It is nothing.”

            “Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Abbie replies, frowning. “C’mon, talk to me.”

            Crane purses his lips. “You had little time to convince my other self of your identity and gain his aid in setting the world right. I remember myself back then; skeptical, suspicious. I could not have been receptive during our initial encounter.”

            “I wasn’t exactly a peach when we first met here, either,” Abbie points out.

            Crane shakes his head. “What I mean to say is that despite odds that truly were astronomical, you not only proved the validity of your story, you managed to garner my other self’s trust and open his eyes to the truth. In mere hours.”

 _Oh_. Abbie sighs, leaning forward to balance her elbows on her knees, wondering how many times she’s going to have to have this discussion with him. “Yeah. Your past self was hell bent on blaming himself for not seeing through Katrina sooner, too.”

           “You so easily dismiss my culpability,” Crane says quietly. “I am beginning to wonder if it is for my benefit that you do so.”

           Abbie stares at him. “If you have something you want to say to me Crane, then say it.”

           “You must be angry with me, Lieutenant.”

           “I really wish you’d stop telling me what I must be thinking about you.”

           “You would have every right to be. You risked much and repeatedly placed yourself in grave danger at my bidding to protect or assist Katrina. You endured Purgatory to—”

           Abbie holds up a hand to halt him. “I’m not doing this with you, Crane.” If he’s determined to kick himself when he’s already on the floor, Abbie’s not going to lift a finger to help.

           But he’s relentless. “You misliked Katrina from almost the beginning.”

           “I _misliked_ her because she refused to see her son for what he was and because she broke your fucking heart in front of me,” Abbie spits out before she can stop herself. “So what, I should feel vindicated now and hold it over your head because she turned out to be a treacherous power mad psychopath?”

           Crane opens his mouth, then closes it. He averts his eyes. “I do not wish to quarrel with you, Lieutenant.”

          “I damn sure can’t tell,” Abbie snaps before reining it in. She inhales deeply and tilts her head in his direction, trying to adopt a gentler tone. “Yes, I put my neck on the line for her. Yes, there were times when I thought you’d lost your mind where she was concerned and yes, your trust in her put our mission in jeopardy more than once. But however mad about it I may or may not have been, I think you’re torturing yourself just fine on your own. Christ, don’t you?”

          Crane ducks his head, concealing his expression from her eyes. “I simply do not want you to feel as though you must shield me from your ire. You are well within your rights to place the blame on my shoulders for this, no matter how you protest. If it is for my benefit that you choose not to express your anger, know that I can take it.”

          Annoyance drains out of her like a sieve. “Mess,” she murmurs, regarding him sadly and shaking her head. “You’re a damn mess Crane, you know that?”

          “I would never have forgiven myself had you come to harm.” His voice is unsteady. “If you had…I don’t know how I would have been able to bear it if—”

          “It doesn’t matter.”

          He makes an incredulous noise. “How can you say that?”

          “Because it doesn’t. Everything worked out.” Crane doesn’t look remotely convinced. Abbie reaches over and covers his hand with hers. “I don’t blame you. You need to stop blaming yourself. It’s nobody’s fault but hers.”

          Crane studies their joined hands, turning his wrist so that he can catch her fingers in his, saying nothing. Abbie doesn’t let go.

          Irving ends up making pork chops for dinner. Crane goes back for seconds. After, the three of them teach Crane the finer points of spades. Crane, because he’s Crane, picks up on the game immediately and sets out to single-handedly strip them of the chips Jenny had brought over for them to gamble with.

            “This game bears striking resemblance to whist,” he comments when it’s his turn to shuffle. “I like it immensely.”

            “I’m overjoyed,” Irving deadpans, fiddling with the four chips Crane’s left him after the last round. “You’re entirely too good at this.”

            “There were no tablets or smart phones on ships bound for the Americas in my day,” he reminds them. “We had to find ways to keep ourselves occupied. The journey across the Atlantic made many proficient at cards by the time we put into New York harbor.”

            When Crane cleans them all out of chips, they play for shots. Between the second or third, Crane launches into a long-winded explanation of something called cribbage that no one can follow after the fourth shot is downed. Eventually the cards are abandoned in favor of conversation, stretching on into the night. Irving and Jenny are putting in work to lift Crane’s spirits and for all intents and purposes, they seem to be succeeding: Crane’s smile comes easier and easier and Irving even manages to get him to laugh before the night is out. Abbie hadn’t realized how much she’d missed the sound until she hears it again.

            It’s near midnight when Jenny gives a big, elaborate yawn and Irving calls them a cab and tries to do the dishes in the interim. Abbie bats him away.

            “You cooked, we clean. That’s how it works. Thanks for that, by the way; it was a damn good meal. You’ve got some skills.”

            “I’m full of all kinds of secrets,” Irving says lightly. Across in the living room, Crane is helping Jenny with her coat. “He’s gonna be fine, Mills,” he says when he catches Abbie watching Crane. “We had a good talk earlier. It’s gonna hurt for a while, but he’ll be fine.”

            “It helps knowing there are people in his corner.” Abbie gives Irving a warm look. “This was good for him. Thank you.”

            When the cab arrives, she and Crane see Irving and Jenny out. Jenny gives Crane another hug and Irving shakes his hand, both of them promising they’ll be in touch.

            “A fine evening,” Crane states after they head back inside the cabin. “I am glad to have seen them.”

            “And I’m glad to have my jeep back,” replies Abbie, smirking up at him. “Between you and Jenny, I don’t think it’s long for this world, though.”

            “I have made great strides in driving in the past year,” he retorts, arching an eyebrow. “Your sister is pleased with my progress. Progress that could continue if you would deign to teach me as well.”

            “Haven’t I had enough brushes with death for a while?” Abbie gripes before her eyes go wide and she realizes what she said. She whips around to face Crane, ready to apologize, but is surprised when he chuckles deeply.

            “Ever theatrical, Lieutenant.”

            “Yeah, well.” Abbie fights back a yawn. “I think I’ll turn in. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

            Crane nods, looking towards the fireplace. “I believe I shall stay up for a time.” Abbie hesitates, but isn’t sure what to say. Crane must sense it because he glances down at her. “Rest easy, Lieutenant. I am well enough for the moment.”

            “If you need me,” Abbie begins.

            “I know where you are,” he finishes. “Before you retire, though, there is something I wish to ask you.” Abbie turns to face him properly. “You have already done so much, but I—”

            “Crane,” she chides gently. “What do you need?”

            “I tire of the confines of this cabin,” Crane admits. “I thought to go out. Tomorrow morning, perhaps? If you would be amenable to driving.”

            “Of course. Did you have anywhere specific in mind?”

            Crane doesn’t reply right away, eyes fixed to the hearth like he sees more than the fire. “Yes,” he says quietly. “Yes, I did.”

            “Tomorrow morning,” she promises. “First thing. Try not to stay up too late.”

            “Dream sweetly, Lieutenant.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Abbie turns the car off and looks to Crane. “You take as long as you need,” she says softly.

            He nods. A few beats pass in silence. “Lieutenant, would you…that is, I would very much appreciate if…”

            “Crane,” Abbie interjects with exasperated fondness because god, the man is _ridiculous_. “You can ask me.”

            His eyes are sheepish when they find hers. “Accompany me? Please.”

            Abbie smiles and opens the door.

            The early morning breeze has a bit of bite to it, rolling through the little cemetery and making Abbie shiver. She thinks about the last time they were here, back when she hadn’t known Crane from Adam and didn’t believe a word out of his mouth. A graveyard had been the absolute last place she’d wanted to be so soon after Corbin, let alone in the company of a man she’d decided from jump was crazy. The differences between then and now are staggering.

            She follows behind Crane, weaving through the rows of tombstones until they reach their destination. Crane peers down at his wife’s name in silence, clasping his hands behind his back. Abbie watches him out of the corner of her eye. Though it’s been days since she’d last seen tears in his eyes, Abbie hadn’t been sure of what to expect when this moment came.

            Crane’s expression is stoic and resigned. The silence stretches on for a long while. Finally, he sighs.

            “Easy is the descent into Hell, for it is paved with good intentions,” he murmurs, staring down at the headstone.

            “Milton was onto something there,” Abbie agrees.

            “I have spent much of the last two years endeavoring to find reason in Katrina’s actions,” he continues, wind lifting wisps of hair free from his ponytail. “Why did she conceal from me my role as Witness and the magic at her sway? Why did she not tell me she was with child? Why, despite everything that she endured fighting on our side for so long, did she choose to take up with Henry? Two years I have spent thus, and I am no closer to comprehension than I was when I began.” He pauses for a long moment. “And I find that I have grown tired of trying.”

            Abbie watches as he unclasps his hands, fingers of his left curling around the thick silver band on his right ring finger. He slides it off and goes to his knees in the grass. With care, he sets the ring on the ground before the headstone and covers it with a small mound of loamy dirt. Then, he bows his head.

            When he rises, his eyes are dry. Abbie’s aren’t. Crane turns to her, searching her face. “She is not worth your tears, Lieutenant.”

            “You’re an idiot if you think they’re for her,” Abbie mutters, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. Before she can lower her hand, Crane catches it in his and holds it between them.

            “I am not certain I would have been able to endure these last days had you not been at my side,” he says. “You haven’t any idea just how much I rely upon your strength.”

            Now it’s Abbie’s turn to look sheepish. “I’m not so strong.”

            “You are far stronger than I. No word or deed rendered on my behalf would ever be recompense enough for—”

            “English, Crane,” Abbie interrupts with a teasing smile. “ _American_ English: think monosyllables.”

            Crane smiles too. “Then I shall simply say that I could not have asked for a better companion in my time of need. You are invaluable and I pledge to you here and now that I will never again take your friendship for granted.”

            “You and me against the world,” Abbie affirms. “Whatever comes next.”

            Abbie feels like they should shake on it, but Crane has something else in mind. With reverence in his eyes, he lifts her hand to his mouth, dropping a kiss to the top of it. Abbie isn’t prepared for the way it makes her chest tighten, or how bereft she feels when he finally does let go.

            “Deal,” she says. “So, what now?”

            Crane considers the question, wrapping his coat a little tighter around himself. “As the day is quite crisp, perhaps…Starbucks?”

            Abbie grins. “I’ll buy.”

            It doesn’t strike Abbie until they have both put their backs to the cemetery, bound for her jeep that this is it. This is her sign; Crane’s ready to be by himself now.

            It doesn’t make her feel as good as she thought it would.

 


	2. Chapter 2

PART II

* * *

 

 

            “It is _barbaric_ ,” Crane hisses. “I have never heard of such a thing; even the ancient Romans did not treat their gladiators so abhorrently. And to force such violence upon _children_! Absolutely barbaric.”

            “You said that already,” Abbie mumbles.

            “It bears repeating,” Crane retorts, just this side of snarky.

            She tips the menu back enough so that she can see him. “Crane, it was just a movie.”

            “And so lessons cannot be gleaned from it? The entire saga serves as a cautionary tale of the horrors that can befall a society when the governing body gains too much power. Every man and woman holding public office should familiarize themselves with these stories and keep firmly in their minds that this is what they risk becoming if they vie for too much influence and ignore the common good. On their heads be the consequences if they don’t.”

            Abbie ignores him. “Oatmeal with honey and fruit,” she tells Maddy, who jots down her order.

            “Sure, Abbie. I’m with Mr. Crane on this one, though. The Hunger Games is a pretty freaky scenario most people think is impossible, but that’s what they used to say about atomic bombs, too.”

            “God, please don’t encourage him.”

            Crane narrows his eyes at Abbie before requesting an omelet. When Maddy is on her way back to the kitchen, he leans forward. “You would mock my concern, madam.”

            “I would. And I’m gonna continue, if it’s all the same to you.”

            “It may seem a fantastical tale to you, having never lived under the thumb of a tyrannical ruler, but it does not sit well with me.”

            Abbie could argue that; it’s only by the grace of god that he missed the eight years of Bush she had to suffer through. But the goal here, after all, is to not encourage him. “Toughen up, chief. What’s that your people say? Stiff upper lip?”

            “My people,” Crane grinds out slowly, pointedly, “are _American_.”

            “Not sounding like that, they’re not.”

            Crane regards her with clear exasperation. “My, aren’t we incorrigible this morning.”

            “This is what you get for starting a rant before I’ve finished my coffee,” Abbie replies, lifting her mug to salute him.

            Crane grunts, drumming his fingers on the table. His eyes eventually turn to the window they’re positioned next to. “Are you aware of what this day marks, Lieutenant?”

            Abbie’s expression gentles and she nods. It’s part of the reason she’d invited him out for breakfast before her shift started. She hadn’t planned on bringing it up unless he did, and of _course_ he did. “You okay?”

            “Quite. How strange it is, the difference a few months makes. I feel as though I have become a different man since Katrina’s death. I am closer to peace now than I was when we freed her from Purgatory.” He scowls. “What a wretched thing to say.”

            “It’s not. You’re too hard on yourself, Crane.”

            “And you are far too kind,” he replies, though he looks grateful for it. “So much of my time in this era has been that of a man adrift, trying to reconcile my experiences before my resurrection with all that I have learned to be true in this day and age. Only now do I feel as though I am truly beginning to settle.”

            “Tell me something, Crane,” Abbie requests, suddenly curious. “If there was no apocalypse and you had the chance to go back and live out the rest of your life in the 18th century, would you?”

            “I would not.” His reply is decisive. “Should you have asked me that three months ago, I am not sure my answer would have been the same. But with the deaths of my wife and son, the last tethers linking me to that time in my life have been broken. There was a time I feared losing that connection, but much has changed.” Crane pauses, thoughtful. “There are certain things about this time that I would not wish to give up.”

            “Xbox,” Abbie hedges. “Starbucks. Medicine. Air conditioning. Pizza.”

            “You.” Abbie’s eyebrows fly up. “What I mean to say,” he continues quickly, clearing his throat, “is that were I to return to my time, I would be willfully depriving myself of your friendship, a situation I find wholly unacceptable.” Crane frowns, like that _also_ wasn’t what he meant to say.

            Abbie lets him off the hook. “Well,” she says, clasping her hands on the table, “you say that like me being in the past is impossible. We know from experience it isn’t.”

            “Regardless, I am unwilling to attempt the traveler’s spell for a second time.”

            “You and me both. And I guess it’d be a little hard for us to be friends in 1781.” Abbie recalls something Crane’s fuckface commanding officer had said. “Well, I mean we _could_ , but not without you shelling out some serious money at an auction.”

            Crane recoils like she’d slapped him. “Please do not ever suggest such a thing again, even in jest.”

            “2015 it is,” Abbie declares with a grin. “There are perks. And think about it: you’re going to see the grand plan of democracy in motion during Presidential elections soon.”

            “An experience I am keenly looking forward to.”

            Maddy comes around with their breakfast and they eat in pleasant silence for a while.

            Then Crane says, “Tell me of the political climate in this age, Lieutenant.”

            Abbie opens her mouth and closes it again because where to even _begin_. The first few months after they met, she’d given him a sort of bare bones rundown on the course history had taken between his time and hers. The rest she’d filled in as they went along, addressing his questions when he asked and his natural curiosity propelled him into reading and research of his own. He’s covered quite of bit of ground; he can’t always say how something works, but most of the time he’ll at least be able to follow Abbie’s thoughts in conversation.

             But there’s still a lot Crane doesn’t know about or fully understand. Two years doesn’t make up for two hundred fifty, even with his own voracious attempts to study up. Nothing beat hands-on experience. But for everything else, well, there’s Abigail Mills to answer questions.

            And Crane had so many very many questions.

            Eventually the response Abbie goes with is, “It’s complicated.”

            “You don’t say,” Crane replies, definitely snarky this time.

            Abbie sucks the oatmeal from her spoon, looking him up and down. “I don’t know if you’re ready for this conversation.”

            “I have been in this time for over two years. I have assimilated quite well—”

            “Except for minor break downs over taxes, water, inaccurate history and Instagram,” Abbie interrupts, ticking each item off with her fingers.

            “—considering how different this age is from whence I hail. Minor breakdowns aside,” he continues with a pointed look. “And while accompanying you during the midterms proved informative for current stances on local issues, I find concerns of national and international interest still vex me. If I am to fully integrate into this society and exercise my rights as an American to vote in the upcoming elections, I wish to make the most well-informed decision possible.”

            “Vote,” Abbie repeats. “With the speed you pick up on things, I expect you to be _running_ the damn country inside of a decade.”

            Crane’s eyes go impish. “Were I to away to the capitol, who would keep you out of trouble?” he inquires, smile tugging at his lips.

            “You don’t keep me out of trouble, you get me _in_ it.” She gives him a sidelong glance and sighs, holding out her hand. “All right. Phone.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “Fork it over,” Abbie demands, wiggling her fingers. Crane digs into his pocket and passes her his cell. She brings up Wikipedia and types in a few choice words before handing it back to him. “Okay, Crane. Knock yourself out.”

            “And what, praytell, is this?”

            “Some back-story you need to check out before you go asking questions about today’s political climate. You’re gonna get your feelings hurt,” she adds in a sing-song voice, scooping up another spoonful of oatmeal.

            “Which I am sure you will thoroughly enjoy.”

            Abbie grins at him, balancing a blueberry between her teeth.

            As it turns out, Abbie doesn’t enjoy Crane’s little foray into politics as much as she thought she would.

            It starts almost immediately after breakfast. By the time Abbie’s pulling into the station lot, her phone has pinged three times. All three texts are from Crane. She eyes the first one.

            _When you said ‘complicated’, were you perchance referring to the abysmal job the generations following mine have done in handling politics in this country?_

            She arches an eyebrow.

            _I did not overcome dysentery at Valley Forge for this nation to devolve into an intractable two-party system,_ reads the second text. _A system no doubt spurred on by the archaic usage of an electoral college._

Abbie scrolls down to the last.

_Why bother with a national popular vote when all a candidate must do is focus their efforts on those few states not rigidly aligned with either party? The lengths in which this country goes to disenfranchise its citizens!_

            _See?_ Abbie types back, _you’re already in your feelings._

            And that’s pretty much how it continues for a solid week and a half. Crane spends more time poring over historical texts in the public library than he does at home. When he’s not there, he’s hunkered down in the archives doing the same. He’s got a mind like a sponge and Abbie’s known him long enough to know how he operates when he’s gnawing on a really good conundrum, as he calls them. Crane’s curiosity, once roused, is like a dog let off its leash and he can speed from topic to topic without her having noticed that he’s shifted gears until he says something.

            Most of the time it’s sort of fascinating to watch; working with Crane always sends Abbie’s own mind into overdrive, her intellect stirred into moving faster by the sharpness of his. It reminds her of everything she loved about college.

            Most of the time. The rest of the time, it’s just exhausting.

 _What is this I am reading about a European Union?_ reads text message number sixty-seven—and oh yes, Abbie’s keeping count. _This is intolerable. It would serve that continent well to remember the fate that befell the Holy Roman Empire they have so clearly strived to fashion themselves after._

            “It would serve you equally well to remember that two world wars tore the continent apart while you were power-napping through the century,” she says when she calls him on her lunch break.

            “You believe this supranational conglomerate to be a stabilizing influence?”

            “I believe that 2015 Europe beats the hell out of 1915 Europe. There’s more involved with wars today than the one you fought in.”

            “You refer to the weaponry born of the Manhattan Project.” There’s a brief pause before he continues, “When you said that it leveled parts of Japan—?”

            “It’s called a scorched earth response,” she explains. “When you come across the photos, keep in mind that the weapons of mass destruction we have today can do almost five hundred times the damage. Then talk to me about the fate of the Holy Roman Empire.”

            So it’s her fault, really, that text messages sixty-eight through ninety-one are all about nuclear war. He’s been horrified by things he’s learned about history before; the rants she’s heard about Jim Crow, the genocide of the Native Americans and the Red Scare are some of Crane’s greatest hits. But the nukes seem to have crossed a new line.

            Abbie’s coming off of a grueling double shift at the station when number ninety-two shows up.

_This is not to be borne. 200,000 people lost their lives with the detonation of one of these bombs. One! How can it be that thousands of weapons infinitely more destructive still exist?_

            She punches in her response before she gets in her jeep. _You’re awfully judgmental for a guy who kicked the bucket before globalization became a thing._

            _The mere presence of this technology ensures that it will be used again in future conflicts. If current world leaders had but a modicum of sense, they would see that the only possible response to the shadow these weapons cast is a rigorous policy of deterrence._

Abbie’s reading the text a second time when another one comes in. _Deterrence that should begin with our own stores. The vast military might of this country is not a thing to be worshiped! It is a great burden of responsibility and how we as a republic bear that responsibility speaks of our character. Why has the body politic decided that it is more important a thing to induce fear than garner the respect of other nations?_

            _Crane,_ Abbie finally types. _Google. Get acquainted._

            The response comes back lightning fast and Abbie really wishes she hadn’t showed him voice text. _In the time it took you to write that unintelligible gibberish knowing full well I would not take your meaning, you could have simply answered my query. You are being deliberately disputatious._

_Is it working? Please tell me it’s working._

That grants her a few hours of a break. After a quick dinner, Abbie’s climbing into bed, heavy with fatigue and the prospect of a solid five hours of sleep before she has to be back at the station in the morning. She’s just pulled the covers over her when her cell chimes, startling her to full wakefulness again.

            For a second, she lays there in the darkness and considers ignoring it. Eventually though, she sits up and reaches for her phone, telling herself that it could be something important.

            But of course it’s _not_.

_I have just come across the rhetoric of one Ronald Reagan and I see now why fanaticism for the military is pervasive. Truly these weapons are disgraceful things, Lieutenant. Their existence cannot stand._

_Start a revolt,_ she types. _You’re good at that._

            Before she puts her phone down, it buzzes one more time.

 _IMPOSSIBLE CREATURE_.

            He definitely typed that one out. Abbie’s smile is buried in her pillow as she gets comfortable again and closes her eyes.

            “Okay, look,” she begins when she visits him in the archives the next morning, “much as I love being your personal encyclopedia, I go a little psychotic when I run on less than five hours of sleep.”

            Crane’s eyes widen. “A fine thing to tell me now. Had I this information two years ago, it could have saved me so much strain.”

            Oh, glory. He’s in a snit. “We are very short-staffed. I’m pulling fourteen hour shifts. You cannot text me in the middle of the night to rant about nuclear proliferation.”

            “Perhaps you would have preferred if I called.”

            Abbie stares at him. It’s a good minute before he looks up from his book, lifting an eyebrow.

            “Grates on the nerves, yes? When one is being deliberately disputatious? Does it occur to you,” he continues smoothly as Abbie moves herself out of range because if she doesn’t, she just might _strangle_ him, “that we kept far more ludicrous hours in the fight against Moloch? There were many a day that we went without sleep to plot and you always performed commendably regardless of how well rested you were. You are losing your touch, Lieutenant.”

            She leans over the table. “This is a thing, isn’t it? When smug geniuses get bored, they start messing with their friends’ minds.”

            “I am not smug and I am most certainly not bored,” he counters reasonably. “I am in the pursuit of knowledge.”

            “You _are_ smug and this pursuit of knowledge would go a lot faster if you’d direct your questions to a computer and not your partner. I can’t answer everything. It’s time for you and the Internet to get on a first name basis.”

            Crane grunts, turning a page. “There is nothing garnered from the _cloud_ that cannot be found in books. Books are eternal, dependable. Books also do not proposition me out of the blue as the Internet is wont to,” he says, making Abbie chuckle. His eyes flash up to hers. “And I prefer to direct my questions to you because you are clever and I desire your discourse.”

            “Ah,” Abbie responds, feeling suddenly anxious under the weight of his words and those damn eyes.

            “When you are not being disputatious,” he adds and if he wasn’t smug before, he certainly is now.

            She breaks the tension with a haughty look. “ _Just_ clever?”

            “Moreso than most I’ve met. The span of your knowledge is obscene.”

            “You get that that knowledge is partly a benefit of living in the Information Age?” Crane makes a noncommittal sort of noise and flips another page.

            Abbie mulls it over for a minute, bracing her hands on the table. “I’ll make you a deal, Crane. I will show you how to use the Internet so you can block ads and websites that _proposition_ you,” she says. “I’ll show you how to tailor it to fit your needs. But I want something in return.”

            That gets his attention. “A barter, then. I suppose that’s fair. What is it you wish of me?”

            “Instruction for instruction. I’m teaching you something; I want you to teach me something.”

            His eyes light up; Abbie thought he’d like that. “And what is it you wish to learn?”

            She smiles and says, “Show me how to handle a sword.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Her next day off, Abbie finds herself on the little dock Corbin had built on the banks of the pond, watching as Crane bounds down the porch stairs with a rapier in his hand. “Should I be worried?” she asks when he comes close enough to hear. “You’re really enthusiastic about this.”

            “Being a man out of time has made me reliant upon your instruction. Now, I have an opportunity to return the favor.”

            “Uh-huh. And that it’s swordplay you get to teach me just tickles you.”

            “Not the words I would have chosen, but also not untrue.” Crane’s eyes go to her hip. “You will want to remove your weapon holster, Lieutenant. It will upset your sense of balance.”

            Shrugging off the inevitable sense of nakedness, Abbie undoes the straps on her holster, setting the gun against one of the dock posts. Crane demonstrates a few stances and then passes her the sword. She takes a couple of experimental swings.

            The rapier weighs a little more than she’d originally thought. While it’s not the heaviest weapon she’s ever handled, it also requires a lot more manual operation. The muscles in her arms are up for the challenge, but what really surprises her is how much footwork is involved. It entails more coordination than Abbie had been expecting. Crane’s long stride is fitting for the motions and he moves with deft experience and maybe a hint of embellishment.

            “Show off,” Abbie grumbles with a smile Crane matches as he offers her the sword again. “Not all of us have legs like a grasshopper.”

            “Grouse as you like Lieutenant, but I see potential here. Relax your shoulders.”

            “Yes, professor.”

            Her response teases another little smile out of him. “May I ask what prompted this sudden interest in swordplay?”

            “You may. I’ve been thinking about it since the Sword of Methuselah, actually.”

            “Liked the feel of it in your hand, did you?”

            Abbie hums. “Besides that, a lot of the big bads that show up use swords. Seems like something I should know.”

            “A fair point.” Crane takes a moment and makes some minor adjustments to her stance, fingers skating along the line of her shoulders. When he’s satisfied, he comes around to her field of view again. “Your previous training in the police force has done your form many favors. You’ve excellent posture as well.”

            “Just gotta get the feet in order. I like this,” she declares, flexing her wrist. “It makes me feel like I’m _doing_ something.”

            “With regards to the apocalypse, you mean. We have had difficulties adjusting before,” he reasons, “in the brief détente prior to the arrival of Orion.”

            Abbie shakes her head. “That was different, though. This time around, we know for sure that it isn’t over. I always thought that that certainty would make it easier.” She shakes her head again, wiping her mouth.

            “You are troubled,” he says as he moves closer to her, face nothing but concern. “Lieutenant,” he prompts when the silence goes on too long.

            “Sometimes,” says Abbie, voice soft, “I wake up and for a split second, I forget he’s dead. Even after all this time, there’s a moment just before I’m fully awake that I think he’s still out there raising an army of demons.” The hand holding the sword is shaking. Abbie sets it on the ground and is slow to rise again, clasping both hands behind her neck.

            Crane watches her, saying nothing, and waits.

            “It’s like being back in Purgatory. It’s that kind of fear.” Abbie cards a hand through her hair. “Frank’s moving past it all. Jenny, too. But I’m…I don’t know. I’m stuck.” She bites her lips. “I want to stop living in that moment, but I don’t know how. Every time I try, I feel like I’m letting my guard down and then I remember why I was scared in the first place.”

            Crane’s fingers twitch like they always do when he’s unsettled. “I, too, dislike the waiting. The burden of knowing that our work is not yet done comes at the cost of peace of mind. If you are stuck, then I am as well.”

            And aren’t they just a pair. Abbie folds her arms over her chest, scoffing at her own bitterness. “So what do we do?”

            Crane thinks it over, turning his gaze to the stretch of water beyond them. “Perhaps,” he says eventually, “knowing that it won’t last is all the more reason to cherish whatever respite we’ve been granted. There is, after all, a difference between wisely taking advantage of a moment’s peace and indulging in complacency.” He picks up her discarded sword, eyes wandering back to her. “And when you fear that you edge too close to the latter, remember that you are not resting idly.”

            It’s a start, she supposes. “Okay, enough of the pity party. Let’s get back to it.”

            For a while, there’s only the swish of metal through still air and the occasional murmured correction of her form as Crane watches her practice lunging. “May I ask you something else, Lieutenant?” he says after a time.

            Abbie eyeballs him warily. “Is this more nuclear proliferation stuff?”

            “I believe contending with one apocalyptic situation is enough for now, so I have moved on,” he tells her, looking legitimately stricken. “But this morning, I came across an acronym in my readings that I am unfamiliar with. N-A-S-A.”

            “National Aeronautics and Space Administration,” she replies before pronouncing the acronym properly for him.

            “There is an entire section of the fiscal budget dedicated to spending on this aeronautics. I assume it falls within the purview of this administration. How did such a thing come to be?”

            “There was a race,” Abbie offers. “We won, by the way.”

            “By spending money that could have been allocated to combat hunger or poverty?”

            “I’m beginning to doubt your patriotism here, Mr. Crane.”

            “I spilled blood for this nation.” His fingers touch the back of her sword arm. “Elbows up, Lieutenant.”

            Abbie complies. “The money that put satellites in space and men on the moon is also responsible for a lot of technological breakthroughs. Like that cell phone you seem to have glued to your hand.” She cranes her neck to glance back at him. “Still with me, here?”

            “Did I hear you correctly?” he asks, looking and sounding slightly manic. “There are men on the _moon_?”

            Abbie sighs.

            “It’s like watching somebody read through Harry Potter for the first time,” she explains to Jenny over dinner the next night. “You know what’s coming and you just have to brace yourself for the freak-out. I may have to hurt him.”

            Jenny snorts. “After all the trouble you went through to keep him safe?”

            “Every answer I give him only leads him to ask another question. Jenny, _he_ _doesn’t stop asking questions_.”

            “Aren’t you teaching him how to use the Internet?”

            “He’s taken too well to the other end of our deal,” she mutters, rubbing a kink in her neck.

            Jenny smirks. “How goes the fencing?”

            “I’m sore in places I didn’t even know I had. It’s a good kind of sore, though.”    

            “You off duty tonight?” Jenny asks. Abbie nods. “Good. Tonight’s the first night the temperature is gonna be above freezing. Know what that means?”

           “Less money I have to give to ConEd?”

           “It means we’re hitting the bar.” Abbie’s face falls. “You owe me, remember? Mothers are scrambling to hide their sons as we speak.”

            An hour later and Abbie has slipped into the smallest, skimpiest dress she owns and gussied herself up to Jenny’s standards. Jenny puts on a dress that’s even smaller and skimpier than hers—and fuck if Abbie knows how that’s even possible since she’s basically wearing a dinner napkin—and bustles them out to her jeep.

            “It’s criminal that you have legs like that and you never show them off,” Jenny scolds as they speed down the highway.

            “I can’t fight the forces of evil in skirts and stilettos, Jen.”

            “I once had a firefight with a band of mercenaries at a little restaurant in Singapore. I’ll have you know your girl gunned them down in Manolos and walked outta there without a single hair out of place. Life goals, Abbie.”

            Abbie grunts, digging her cell out of her clutch. Her thumbs fly over the screen. _Been kidnapped. Jenny is dragging me out for a night on the town_. _May need backup._

            Jenny catches her. “Phone down, Abbie. Unless you’re sending him a photo of you in that dress. In that case, carry on.”

            “You don’t even know who I’m texting,” Abbie argues even though she doesn’t have a leg to stand on and she knows it.

            Jenny knows it too, because she tosses Abbie a smirk before returning her eyes to the road. “Oh, _please_. I think you’ve spent enough time with your mind on him. Let’s have a night for you, yeah? A night doing something you like.”

            “A night doing something I like would have looked a lot more like pajamas and ice cream and Netflix. This is something _you_ like.”

            “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” Jenny gripes, rolling her eyes. “Have a little faith in me. We’ll have fun, I promise.”

            The bar is packed when Jenny pulls into the lot. Abbie somehow manages to slide out of the jeep despite how short and tight her dress is and is trying to tug it a little further down her thighs when Jenny comes around to her side of the car and bats her hands away. “Abbie, seriously. You’re messing up _my_ cool at this point.”

            It’s just as loud and full as Abbie feared when they get inside. Somehow Jenny manages to find them one of the few unoccupied tables tucked close enough to the counter so they won’t have to go too far for refills. It takes them a second to flag down the bartender but within ten minutes, Abbie’s nursing a blue long island and thinking maybe this won’t be so bad.

            “What about him?” Jenny nods to a group of guys loitering around one of the pool tables. “The redhead. He’s looked over here a couple of times.”

            Then again, maybe it will. “Jenny, for real.”

            “What?” her sister demands, fiddling with the straw in her screwdriver. “God, you’re hopeless at this on your own.”

            “I managed to do all right the thirteen years you weren’t around.”

            “These lies from your mouth. I’ve met Luke Morales, remember?”

            “I thought the whole point of this outing was for me to be _your_ wing-woman, not vice-versa.”

            “Change in plans. I’ve come to the conclusion that you are in far more desperate need of a hook-up than I am. And I spent a year and a half in a psych ward,” Jenny adds, sliding off her stool. “Think about that while I run to the bathroom.”

            Abbie’s considering making a mad dash for the jeep when her phone buzzes on the table. She picks it up and opens her messages.

            _When in hostage situations, the best course of action is to appease your abductor._ _Do as she bids and you stand a fair chance of surviving._         

            Abbie types the word ‘traitor’ and sends it off. Not thirty seconds later, her phone buzzes again.

            _Your melodrama is most unbecoming. Do try to enjoy yourself, Lieutenant._

            Mutiny. That’s what this is. Abbie’s composing a scathing reply when she feels a tap on her shoulder.

            “Well well, fancy meeting you here.” Abbie spins in her seat to find a familiar face waiting for her.

            “If it isn’t Calvin Riggs, professional snoop.”

            Riggs’ smile is bright and unassuming. “Glad you remember me.”

            “How’s your brother?”

            “He’s good, real good. Here somewhere, actually. I’m up here visiting him and my niece for the weekend, just a quick turn and burn before I’m back to the city.” His eyes seem to sparkle. “Nothing to shoot in Sleepy Hollow, after all. Unless there’s another underground chamber filled with rabid nightmare creatures you wanna tell me about.”

            “You’re out of luck. I don’t discuss work off the clock.”

            “And you were so accommodating about it on the clock, too,” Riggs replies.

            Abbie laughs. “So is this the part where you offer to buy me a drink?”

            “Buy _you_ a drink? I’m still out a seven thousand dollar camera your boyfriend dropped into that manhole, you know.”

            Abbie leans back in her chair. “Right. Because a crime scene and a badge and a gun and a partner who just happens to be male doesn’t say ‘woman-at-work’, it says ‘date’. Obviously.”

            Riggs doesn’t look remotely deterred as he responds, “That was my not so subtle way of asking if you were single.”

            Abbie hums. “I thought a journalist would be better with words than that.”

            “Photojournalist,” Riggs corrects with a lopsided smile that’s entirely too charming. “I’m much more of a visual guy. I like to let an image speak for itself.”

            “Well then, a little advice for the future? Next time, just be straight forward.”

            “Fair enough.” Riggs licks his lips as they curl into another smile. “So are you single then, Lieutenant?”

 _Like a deer into an eighteen-wheeler, Mills._ Not even, because a deer would’ve at least made an _attempt_ to get the hell out of the way. Maybe Jenny had a point about her being bad at this.

            And of course this is the moment Jenny reappears at the table, slipping back into her chair. “Not gone two seconds and they swarm,” Jenny says, eyeing up Riggs with a predatory look.

            “Calvin, this is my sister Jenny. Jenny, Calvin Riggs.”

            “ _The_ Calvin Riggs?” Jenny inquires, shaking his hand. “I was in Cairo right after the Arab spring; the photos you captured did the revolution justice.”

            “Thank you, I consider those some of my finest work. So,” Riggs goes on, surveying them both, “one sister in the police force investigating all kinds of weirdness and another who visits riot-ravaged hot zones right after political upheaval. And they say there’s nothing interesting about Sleepy Hollow.”

            Jenny grins, clearly pleased as punch, and gives Abbie a pointed look.

            Riggs saves Abbie the trouble of coming up with something to say. “Tell you what, Lieutenant. I’ll be in town till Monday. If you feel up to it, we’ll get together. Have a drink, see a movie—whatever. You pick the place and time and I’ll be there. If not, no worries.”

            “Give me your number. I’ll make sure she calls you, even if I have to tie her down and threaten her,” says Jenny and Abbie would kick her under the table it wasn’t for this damn dress.

            Riggs laughs. “She’s already got it. Had it for months, actually.”

            “Oh, _really_ , now?” Jenny shoots Abbie one of her patented what-the-fuck looks.

            “You sure I haven’t deleted it?” Abbie asks, arching an eyebrow.

            Riggs gives her a once-over that lasts entirely too long. Then, he smirks. “I’m sure. Enjoy your evening, ladies.”

            Abbie watches him weave through the crowd, cheeks still warm from his penetrating gaze.

            “Hello,” Jenny says slowly. She leans forward, bracing her folded arms on the table and regarding her sister with playful, glittering eyes. “Abbie _likes_ that, doesn’t she?”

            “Stop. Before you even start, just stop.” A waitress appears at Abbie’s elbow and sets another blue long island down on her coaster. Abbie frowns. “I didn’t order this.”

            “It’s from the gentleman you were just talking to,” the waitress says.

            Son of a bitch. Abbie scans the immediate vicinity but Riggs has already disappeared into the throng of bodies. Jenny’s mischievous eyes are waiting for her when she turns back to the table.

            “I’m going to regret asking this,” Abbie mutters before speaking up, “but if you were in my shoes, would you—?”

            “Morning, noon, night and fourth meal,” Jenny replies flatly, taking a sip of the long island Riggs sent over. “Consider the year you’ve had. Two years, really, since all this apocalypse stuff started. When was the last time you got laid? If you have to think about it, it’s been too long,” Jenny continues before Abbie can say a word.

            Abbie closes her mouth. She hates making Jenny’s point for her. “I haven’t really had down time.”

            “What I’m saying, though. Evil’s clearly taking five so you might as well get it in now before everything hits the fan again. And Mr. Riggs looks like he knows how to knock the keratin treatment right out of a girl.”

            Abbie drags a hand over her face. “Oh my god, _how_ are we related?”

            “Look Abbie, I’m not saying you have to have the man’s children. I’m just saying you deserve a little fun, no strings attached.”

            “But I _like_ strings. Strings work for me.” She’s never been that type of girl, even in her youth.

            “Yeah, but—and I don’t mean to sound like a dick here—how many guys are you going to be able to really _be_ with? Like with the apocalypse and all?”

            Abbie sighs. It’s not like Jenny doesn’t have a point. “So you’re telling me to shack up.”

            “Was that in any way unclear? Shack up and shack up hard. Rinse, repeat.”

            “You really think I, a Witness to the apocalypse we’re killing ourselves to keep under wraps, should be sleeping with a member of the media?”

            “Let’s not pretend like you wouldn’t be just as apprehensive if he was a sous chef or an engineer. If not Riggs, then _somebody_ , Abbs. You wait any longer and you’re gonna get mothballs.”

            Abbie snatches her free drink away. Jenny sticks her tongue out.

 

* * *

 

            “You’re a bad influence.”

            She watches as Crane stills, glancing over at her. “I am?”

            “You are. This was supposed to be you learning something.”

            “I learned a great many things.”

            Abbie considers hitting him with one of the sofa pillows, but decides against it. “You got distracted like you always do.”

            “A man in pursuit of knowledge,” he replies sagely. Two long fingers are pecking at the keyboard of her laptop, balanced on his thighs. “It is a veritable ocean of self-important nonsense, corporate panhandling and a strangely large amount of housecats, but navigate it I shall. There is much to discover.”

            “It’s just YouTube, Crane.”

            “It is also a visual historical archive and I mean to take advantage of it.”

            Abbie smiles, stretching like a housecat herself and nudges his knee with her foot. “I think you’ve got something to say to me, don’t you?”

            Blue eyes flicker up from the computer screen. He takes in her expression with an almighty sigh. “You truly are an impossible creature.”

            “‘Thank you, Leftenant’,” she says, grinning, “‘for showing me the Internet despite how stubborn I was. You were right all along and I should’ve listened to you’.”

            “Are you quite finished?” Crane’s voice is bone dry but the warmth in his eyes gives him away. With care, he sets the computer back on the coffee table where it had been before she’d fallen asleep. Abbie catches a glimpse of the clock display.

            She’s been out for three hours. Abbie had had every intention of making this a proper lesson when she’d come to the cabin earlier. Crane, for all his grumbling, had shown interest in the few sites she started with to demonstrate the basics. When Abbie let him type in a suggestion on YouTube, that was the end of that; Crane was off and running.

            Somewhere between space shuttle launch footage and a miniseries on the presidents of the 20th century, Abbie succumbed to the urge to sleep. Another double-shift at the station yesterday dealing with a slight hangover from her bar romp with Jenny had left Abbie feeling worn out.

            Groaning, she sits up and pushes down a blanket that hadn’t been there when she was awake. Abbie gives Crane an apologetic look. “I didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

            “It is of no matter. You seemed to need the rest.”

            Abbie guesses the day wasn’t a total wash. He’s engaged, anyway. “So you’ve learned the ropes of video sharing websites. It’s a start.”

            “When you have completed your instruction, Miss Jenny has expressed an interest in showing me something called ‘hacking’.” Abbie sighs. “I extended an invitation for her to join us this afternoon, but she did not respond.”

            “I’m not surprised. Jenny met somebody. A guy,” she clarifies when Crane frowns, “the night we went out to the bar. They went out together again last night.”

            “What bearing has that on the events of today?” Abbie counts a cool ten seconds before she sees it click for him. Crane coughs. “Ah.”

            “Ah,” she repeats. She sent Jenny a few just-making-sure-you’re-still-alive-texts which were met with googly-eyed Emoji responses. On the plus side, more Jenny shacking up herself meant less Jenny around to pester Abbie about her own prospects.

            Prospects that certainly haven’t been a persistent niggle in the back of her mind as the weekend winds itself down.

            “This afternoon was nothing but sloth,” says Abbie, leaning back against the sofa. “Shameless, self-indulgent sloth. I’m going to hell.”

            “Surely damnation requires greater trespasses than you’ve committed.”

            Abbie glances up at him and says only half-jokingly, “You didn’t know me before I joined the police force.”

            Crane’s eyes wander down. There’s a question lingering in them. “You don’t speak often about your life prior to meeting Sheriff Corbin.”

            Abbie contemplates Crane’s gentle curiosity for a quiet moment. “Do you get what I mean when I say ‘self-destructive’?”

            “There was a colleague of mine at Oxford,” says Crane, “who grew too fond of drink after the pox took his son.”

            “What happened to him?”

            “The winter before I set sail to the Colonies, he contracted a wasting sickness. He died in disgrace, shunned by his wife and family.”

            Abbie nods solemnly. If Corbin hadn’t been there, that might have been her. “It wasn’t pain, exactly. Not as time went on. It was _nothing_ —an absence of feeling. The best way I can describe it,” she continues, licking her lips, “is not feeling like a whole person. And I did things I’m not proud of, things I can’t take back because I didn’t know how to cope.”

            “You were young and alone,” he says, blue eyes fierce, “suffering tragedies no child should have to.”

            Abbie has to smile at that, tilting her head. “You sound like Corbin. It wasn’t until I was at the academy that I was really able to process everything I’d gone through. It’s like what I said about baseball; the structure of police training, the routine of it made me feel like I’d be okay. It gave me a sense of direction and discipline. And then,” she goes on, twisting on the sofa to face him, “just as I was getting a handle on things, _somebody_ just had to come tumbling out of the woods to throw a wrench in the whole goddamn thing.”

            Crane narrows his eyes. “You would be bereft without me.”

            “I’d cry myself to sleep,” she agrees with a smirk, tucking a leg underneath her.

            “You have come very far, Lieutenant, and in the face of great adversity.”

            “It’s still a work in progress. I don’t always deal with things in a way a therapist would like, but I’ve always managed to pull myself back when I feel like I’m slipping away.”

            Crane turns his gaze to the hearth. Something dark flickers in his expression. “It is an appropriate description: to slip away.”

            Abbie knows what he’s thinking of. “You pulled yourself back, too.”

            “In that, you credit me with a feat you are responsible for.”

            Abbie leans back a little and waits until Crane looks at her again to say, “We all had a choice, remember? You chose to live. Don’t sell yourself short.”

            Crane smiles a little. “Is that an order, Lieutenant?”

            Abbie cuffs him on the shoulder.

            Determined to salvage what’s left of the afternoon, Abbie recaptures her laptop and catches up on a little paperwork as Crane wanders off to lose himself in his reading. An hour or so in, Abbie gets another text from Jenny—this time, an Emoji that looks worn out. It makes Abbie laugh but it also serves as another little reminder of an impending deadline.

            What had been a mere nagging afterthought a few hours before becomes a firmly wedged thought in Abbie’s mind, so much so that she catches herself watching the sun’s slow descent beyond the living room window and gnawing on her bottom lip, weighing her options. Her cell phone is heavy in her pocket.

            “Lieutenant.” She twists around to find Crane’s eyes watching her. “Did you hear none of what I said?”

            He’d been talking to her? Abbie smoothes her hair out her face. “Guess not. Sorry.”

            “You seem distracted.”

            “I’m all right.”

            His expression grows concerned. “If I caused distress earlier, inquiring after your past—”

            “You didn’t, Crane. I’m fine.” She smiles reassuringly. “What were you saying before?”

            “I am considering ordering dinner. What would you like?”

            It happens suddenly within the course of maybe three seconds, but Abbie finally makes a decision and says, “Why don’t you go ahead? I really should get home. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.” The lie rolls off her tongue with more ease than it should.

            “As you wish. Shall we reconvene in a few days time?”

            Abbie waits until she’s out in her jeep to reach for her phone.

            “Cutting it a little close there, don’t you think?” he says when the call connects, like he’d been expecting it. It’s vaguely irritating.

            Irritating, and kind of exciting. Abbie reclines a little. “And I’m sure you were just waiting by the phone.”

            “Maybe I was,” comes the playful response. “Tell me where I’m meeting you.”

            Calvin beats her to the bar and finds Abbie’s gaze immediately when she arrives. Waiting for her across the table from him is an empty chair and another blue long island. His eyes follow her as she sits down and says, “Thanks. For this one and for the one the other night.”

            Calvin glances around the room. “Is this your usual spot?”

            “They do karaoke on Wednesdays.”

            “I like it. Quieter than the place my brother dragged me to the other night.”

            Abbie snorts. “I was there under protest, too.”

            They fall into a startlingly easy rapport. She learns that Calvin’s a year younger than she is, a vegetarian, an avid reader and a basketball fan. He’s worldly in a way that most people in Sleepy Hollow aren’t because of his job and she listens with genuine interest as he tells her about his most recent trip to Nigeria. It’s nice, having an evening with somebody outside of the apocalypse circle.

            More than nice, actually. Calvin is intelligent and funny and listens intently when Abbie finds herself talking about the trouble she used to get into before she’d met Corbin.

            “That’s quite a transformation, from petty thief to police lieutenant,” Calvin says when she finishes her story.

            “I mostly didn’t want to get locked up.”

            “Yeah, but you could have done anything else. That you became a cop after all your trouble with the law says a lot about who you are as a person. It’s admirable.”

            Abbie digests that for a minute, turning her eyes down to what remains of her second drink. “You know,” she says softly, “when you asked me out the other night, a part of me was convinced that you had an ulterior motive.”

            “For the story, you mean? I can understand that,” he replies mildly, smiling his disarming smile. “But no. It’s all you. You leave quite the impression.”

            When last call sounds, Abbie is reluctant to end the night as she and Calvin gather their jackets. And it’s her own fault, really; she’s the one who waited until the very last minute to call him.

            Calvin seems to be on the same page she is because when they step out of the bar and into the clear, cool night air he looks over at her. “Feel like taking a walk?”

            They keep a leisurely pace, conversation eventually fettering off into a comfortable silence. A few blocks walk from the bar finds them in a residential area, rows of neat houses situated on almost identical plots of land. It reminds Abbie of the street her first foster home was on, the one with houses full of loving families that used to make her heart ache around the holidays.

            “I grew up in this neighborhood,” Calvin says suddenly. “My brother and I used to play ball with some kids down the street during the summers. When I heard he was missing, that’s the first thing that went through my mind. All I could think was that we didn’t have enough of those good memories, not yet.”

            “We never do,” she murmurs, thinking of Jenny.

            “I’ve been in war zones more times than I can count, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared than when Daniel was missing. And then, hearing whatever the hell that was down there…I thought he was gone for sure.” Calvin stops then, turning to face her. “That email I sent you? I snapped that photo while you and Mr. Crane were trying to come up with a plan. You had steel in your eyes, the same kind of steel I’ve seen in military commanders. It made me feel like Daniel had a chance of making it out of there.”

            “I’m glad we were able to save him.”

            “There was a cost, though, wasn’t there? I don’t fully understand it but you two had to give up something important to save him and his co-worker.” Abbie keeps her expression neutral but it doesn’t matter because Calvin’s smart enough to know when he’s onto something. “Thank you. Whatever it was you sacrificed for him, thank you.”

            “You’re welcome.” Calvin’s eyes remain on hers and Abbie find she can’t look away. She coughs a little, after a long moment of silence. “So, which of these houses was yours?”

            Calvin twists at the waist, glancing back at the home they’ve stopped in front of. “This one. Still is, actually. My parents left it to me when they retired to Florida and I stay here whenever I come up to visit.”

            “Ah,” says Abbie, heartbeat picking up speed. She assesses the darkened house, wetting her lips. “Do I get a tour?”

            Calvin, grinning, leads her up the steps and unlocks the door. They are inside just long enough for him to flick a light switch before Abbie turns around.

            “You’re going back to the city tomorrow,” she hears herself saying, even though there are a slew of other things she should be saying first.

            “My train’s not until noon.” He moves in close, giving Abbie enough time to pull back if she wants to.

            She doesn’t. Calvin touches his lips to hers, gently at first, then stronger when Abbie presses back. For all that she’s chased demons and fought nightmares and the forces of evil, none of that has felt as dangerous as what she’s doing right now, letting herself get lost in this kiss.

            That danger edges from exciting to too much when a large hand cups the back of her neck. Abbie breaks the kiss, taking a step back. “No.”

            Three heartbeats pass in silence. “I didn’t think I got that wrong.” Calvin’s voice is quiet.

            “No—I mean, you didn’t. You weren’t wrong. I just…” She glances up at him. “Calvin…”

            “I get it. We’re from different sides of the line. You feel like it’s a conflict of professional interest.”

            Close enough, really. She rubs the back of her neck, turning her eyes to the ceiling. “There’s only so much of my life I can share. It wouldn’t be right if I didn’t tell you that now.”

            Calvin nods. Then, he tilts his head. “And if I said that I’m willing to take what you _can_ share? No demands, no expectations, no questions other than ones you want to answer.”

            Abbie regards him with disbelief. “You don’t give up, do you?”

            “Not for the things I want.”

            “You sound like you’ve given that speech before,” she says, eyeing him carefully.

            He snorts. “More times than I’ve wanted to. But that’s my life. My job can keep me traveling for months at a time, and at a minute’s notice I could have to fly halfway around the world to chase a story. I can’t ask for anything more than I’m able to give, so I’m used to taking what I can when it’s offered.”

            “Sounds lonely,” she says softly.

            “It is. But you know that already, don’t you? You live for your work just like I do. And it’s important work that has to be done. I get it,” he says again.

            Abbie studies him for a long, quiet minute. “You really do, don’t you? So, this is good, then. Just tonight.”

            Calvin moves closer to her again. “Sure. Unless you want more than that.”

            “You’re letting me call all the shots here,” she points out, not because she’s not pleased but because it’s damned unusual.

            “I get the feeling you’ve got more to risk than I do. If you want tonight, that’s fine. If you want more, that’s also fine. I _can_ say,” Calvin continues, meeting her eyes, “that for as long as we’re doing this, it will be exclusive on my end. And that I try to visit my niece at least once a month when I can.” He stops there, letting her weigh the decision in silence.

            Abbie likes Calvin. What’s more is that she trusts him, and people she can trust are rare these days. Friends with benefits is not an ideal situation and it’s nothing she’d ever thought she would pursue with anyone. It’s nothing she’d ever thought she’d want for herself.

            But that was before the apocalypse. Now, it’s a chance to be a little less lonely. And more than anything, that’s what she wants.

            Abbie tilts her face up and says, “I want tonight.” His expression remains just as willing so she adds, “Ask me again tomorrow morning if I want more.”

            Calvin smiles, and Abbie kisses him.

 

* * *

 

            The sex is good. Not spectacular or groundbreaking or Disney fireworks, but it _is_ good. Calvin’s generous and attentive and scratches an itch Abbie’s had for too long, and there’s enough of a connection there that it leaves her satisfied on an emotional level. And it’s enough that when he does as she requested and repeats his question to her in the morning, she tells him yes.

            Abbie expects the weeks following to be a kind of adjustment period, but she has less trouble than she thought. Sometimes Calvin will text her, random little things that make her smile, and they speak briefly on the phone when he surprises her with a call one night. And while yes, it would have been nice to be able to go to bed with a warm body more often, Abbie doesn’t find herself _missing_ him when he’s gone.

            It’s not ideal, but it’s also more than she thought she’d have with somebody.

            “It’s scary, how easy this is,” Abbie confesses to Calvin in May during his first visit back. He’d wasted no time inviting her over for dinner that, as it turns out, is going to be a little late. “This whole using-you-for-your-body thing.”

            “I feel like I should be concerned,” he murmurs, watching as she laces their fingers together. “And yet…nope.”

            She giggles, burrowing deeper under the blankets. To hell with dinner.

            A few days after Calvin returns to the city, Jenny catches Abbie before she leaves for work in the morning. “Hey. You got a minute?”

            Abbie glances at the clock. “I got ten. What’s up?”

            “There’s been some chatter,” says Jenny, coming fully into the kitchen with a folder in hand. “I got pinged a few days ago about a black market auction. I took a look at the inventory and most of it isn’t worth much, but there were a few things.”

            Jenny passes her the folder. Abbie scans the highlighted text. “Hierarchies of Demonic Evil.” She looks up. “That’s one of the books that was in the Fenestella.”

            Jenny nods. “I’ve been keeping my eyes open since you and Crane made out that list of what was lost. There’s five more being sold in this auction, all from the same person.”

            “How sure are you that these books are the real things?”

            “The information is good and I trust the source. Now obviously we don’t have the kind of money the dealer wants, so the books have to be recovered before they go on the market in two weeks.”

            “Where’s the dealer based?”

            “I traced him to Colombo.”

            Abbie gives Jenny a level look. “Sri Lanka is an awful long way to go for robbery, Jen.”

            “I know it’s not how you like doing things, but they’d be sold illegally anyway. And we need them. Gotta do what you gotta do, right?” Jenny says grimly.

            “How long will you be gone?”

            “I should be back before the end of the month. If the dealer doesn’t have his merchandise with him, then maybe a bit longer.” Jenny pauses. “I was thinking of asking Frank to come with me.”

            Abbie turns to face her sister fully. “Really.”

            Jenny’s next words come tumbling out. “I mean, he’s not gonna like the work either, but there’s money in it and if you do it right, you can avoid breaking the law, and it’s a job he can do. And it’s not like he can send his resume to police precincts after what happened.”

            “Jenny.” Abbie moves closer when Jenny doesn’t look her way. “What is it, really?”

            Jenny inhales. “After the bell, Frank chased me down. He said something…” She crosses her arms. “I don’t know, it’s in my head.”

            Abbie strokes her arm. “He was under Henry’s control.”

            “No, I know that—he doesn’t even remember what happened, not really. It’s just…” Jenny shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “It just got me thinking. Everything Frank’s been through—prison, the psych ward, Henry, dying—all of it comes back to what happened with Macy.”

            “Ansitif.” Abbie searches her sister’s face, catching her by her shoulders. “Jenny. This isn’t your fault.”

            “If I’d been stronger, if I’d fought the demon off when it possessed me, it wouldn’t have had to go that far.”

            “There’s nothing more you could have done. You’re not to blame for anything that demon did.”

            Jenny shakes her head. “Even after. Abbie, we just _left_ him there. We left him in Tarrytown Psych. I know what it’s like to be sane and to be stuck in that place. Maybe we couldn’t have got him out, but we could have visited.”

            Abbie winces a little. That rings true. There had been a lot going on, some new crisis every week but there had been time enough for a visit or a phone call. He’s gone through more in a year than most go through in a lifetime.

            “We let him down,” Abbie admits. “We could have done better. He’s one of us.”

            “Finding him a steady paycheck is the least I can do after all that.” Jenny chews on her lip. “If he even goes for it.”

            It takes her some persuading, but Jenny manages to talk Irving into it. “I’m doing this against my better judgment,” he tells Abbie during a phone call after the fact, “but if it’ll help in the war, it’s what needs to be done.”

            “How did Cynthia and Macy take it?”

            “They don’t like it, but they’ve seen enough to understand that we need all the edge we can get. I told Cynthia that if she needed anything, she could call you.”

            “She absolutely can. Crane and I will look after them while you’re gone.”

            “Good.” There’s a pause on the line before Irving goes on, “It’s nice to know I’ve got two swords between them and danger.”

            Abbie closes her eyes. “Jenny told you I was learning, huh?”

            “I want to spend the last few nights here with my family before Jenny and I fly out but when I get back, I want to watch you practice. The sword’s got to be what, a good foot or so taller than you?”

            “Oh, you’ve got jokes.”

            “So very many,” Irving replies. “Keep an eye on my family, Mills. See you when I get back.”

            Crane comes over the morning Jenny’s set to fly to wish her well and say goodbye. “You will be cautious, yes?”

            “I’m always cautious,” says Jenny, zipping her duffle bag closed. “Keep your fingers crossed, huh? With any luck, we’ll find more than just those books. Who knows what else this guy could have lying around?”

            “Jenny,” Abbie starts, “please remember you have priors.” Jenny rolls her eyes, but goes willingly into the hug Abbie pulls her in for. “If you run into trouble, call me.”

            A cell phone chimes as Abbie steps back. Jenny’s hand goes for her pocket. “Was that mine?”

            Abbie glances over to the counter where she set her own. Crane is closest to it and as he makes to pass it to her, his eyes find the screen. He freezes mid-motion. “Calvin Riggs?”

            Abbie’s eyes go wide and before she can even react, Jenny is jumping between her and Crane, snatching her phone away to confirm what Crane read. The only thing Abbie can do is stand there and watch as Jenny’s expression grows incredulous.

            “You took my advice?”

            That snaps Abbie out of it. She grabs her phone. “It’s not a thing,” she says as she tucks it safely in her back pocket and heads out of the kitchen, trying like hell to ignore the two extra pairs of feet hot on her heels.

            “Is this where you were all those nights you told me you were working late?”

            “Don’t make it a thing.”

            “Oh come on, Abbie!”

            Jenny almost runs right into her as she whips around. “JFK. Sri Lanka. Have a nice flight.”

            “Did he pop all your buttons and rip your blouse?” Jenny inquires with the devil in her eyes. “Did he—?”

            “God as my witness, I will _shoot_ you Jenny.”

            Crane glances between them but doesn’t say anything, thank Christ. Jenny slings her duffle over her shoulder. “I am calling you the minute I land, do you understand? I don’t care what time it is over here.”

            “G’head.” Abbie waves her off and out the door.

            Jenny backs away. “If you don’t pick up, I’m telling Frank.”

            “Out!” The front door slams. Trouble is, Abbie’s still left with Crane standing right here, peering down at her with a look in his eyes she can’t quite make out. “Can I help you?” she says, expecting Crane to avert his gaze.

            He doesn’t. “You did not mention that you renewed your acquaintance with Calvin Riggs.”

            “It wasn’t meant to be a secret or anything,” she replies honestly. “I just wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

            He doesn’t respond, and Abbie doesn’t get this. They’re friends; Crane knows more about her than practically anyone. He’s confided in her about his marriage more times than she can count and it’s not like Crane’s never asked after her own personal life. It had been irritating the first time he’d done it with Luke. When he’d brought up Hawley, it had been surprising and a little confusing. This is the first time it’s ever been uncomfortable.

           “It’s just…it’s not a thing,” she says for the third time and god, _why_ is it so uncomfortable?

            “So you have said,” Crane says and Abbie is desperately trying to decipher what it is that’s off about his tone. “I’ve yet to understand your meaning.”

            Eventually Abbie gets it together, because one of them has to. “What is it you want from me, here?”

            Crane blinks a few times and seems to come back to himself. “Forgive me. You needn’t—forgive me,” he says again, finally looking away.

            Abbie catches him before he takes a step back. “No, it’s…let’s start over.”

            “Very well,” he murmurs, fingers fluttering at his sides. “You encountered Mr. Riggs again.”

            “When I went out with Jenny. I ran into him at the bar.” She has a fleeting thought of making a joke about Crane’s refusal to rescue her that night, but something instinctively tells her _no_ , absolutely not a good idea.

            “That was some time ago,” Crane says, eyes widening a little.

            “We don’t see each other very often. He works out of the city.” This is what it feels like to walk a tightrope, she thinks, measuring every breath she takes. “You seem surprised.”

            “That is because I am. Was it not you who once said there was no room in your life for complications?”

            “Maybe you were right about that whole opening the heart thing.”

            Crane makes an ironic little noise then before saying, “So, you and Mr. Riggs are engaged in a courtship.”

            Abbie wants a hole to open up beneath her feet and swallow her. Right the fuck now. “Um…that’s not quite it,” she mutters, rubbing her forehead. “We’re together, but not in that sense.”

            “And what other _sense_ is there?”

            “Crane,” Abbie groans, completely at her wits’ end, “ _think about it_.”

            Abbie can point to the very moment that the realization dawns, when his expression slides from confusion to shock and then goes utterly blank. He looks at her and then immediately looks away, flushing deeply.

            It suddenly strikes Abbie how absolutely ridiculous this all is. “Crane.”

            He holds up a finger. “A moment. Just…a moment.”

            “You cannot tell me that there weren’t plenty of unmarried adults in your heyday knocking boots.”

            “Such a charming colloquialism, that,” he mutters distastefully. “I am aware some pursue trysts free of commitments. I just did not take you for such a person.”

            Abbie blinks. “You wanna try that again?”

            “I did not mean to imply anything with regards to your character,” he assures her in a rush. “But you are a person who does nothing by half measures. You give the uttermost of yourself in everything that you do. Such a casual arrangement seems out of character.”

            Her expression softens. “It is, I guess,” she admits. “But I thought about what you said before, about trying to make the most out of something even if it won’t last. This might be one of the last times we have a little peace. I don’t want to waste it being scared, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want to try being normal again, for as long as it lasts. Regular job, nights out with friends, and the occasional date with a man.”

            “And this…suits you,” he hedges, like he isn’t sure he can believe it. “You prefer things thus.”

            “Yes. People do what works best for them and this is the way it works for me and Calvin.” Crane looks down at her, studying her face like he’s trying to settle something in his mind. Abbie smiles a little. “I’m happy with this. Really.”

            Whatever indecision he was mulling over, her words seem to satisfy it. After a moment, Crane nods resolutely. “You deserve that,” he says. “That and any comfort this peace may bring.”

            Abbie nudges him. “I’m not by myself in this, you know. You deserve a little happy of your own.”

            There’s a sadness in the way he smiles at her that she hasn’t seen in months. “It is enough to know that you are, Lieutenant,” he says quietly.

            Abbie links an arm with his. He stiffens, but doesn’t move to pull away. “You’re gonna be okay, Crane,” she tells him, resting her head on the ball of his shoulder. “I promise.”

            “I know.” But Abbie can't help thinking that he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

PART III

 

* * *

 

 

             It’s not midnight but pretty damn close when Abbie’s phone rings. “You can’t be there yet,” she says when she answers it.

             After a bit of a delay, Jenny’s voice comes down the line. “What ever happened to hello?”

             “Where are you?”

             “Doha. Plane’s refueling and I just settled down with an airport bagel that cost me twelve whole American dollars, so spill. You and Calvin?”

             Abbie doesn’t bother brooking a protest. One doesn’t know futility until one knows Jenny Mills. “It’s just a casual thing,” she explains, pushing the covers back and sitting up against the headboard.

            “And how goes this _casual thing_?”

            “Good.” Abbie pauses, letting a smile broaden her mouth. “Very good.”

            Jenny hums. “Good enough that it might lead somewhere?”

            “You mean if I didn’t have a war to fight?”

            “I mean _in spite of_ and you know it. Could you trust him with the whole truth?”

            Abbie can’t say it hasn’t crossed her mind. Calvin fits her in a way few other people ever have.

            “You worried he’d run with the story?” asks Jenny when Abbie hesitates too long.

            “It’s more that I don’t want to put him in that position at all. Even if he wasn’t a reporter, the existence of an apocalypse is a hard pill to swallow.”

            “Maybe if he knew, he could help.”

            Abbie sinks back into the pillows. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m worried about. People have died, Jenny. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt if they don’t need to. And really, I’m okay with the way things are.” Abbie’s whole life has been complicated. What she has with Calvin is simple, blessedly simple, and she likes that.

            “Well look at you.” Jenny’s voice is full of mirth. “This is good, Abbie. I’m a little surprised you took the plunge, but this will be good for you.”

            “I’m glad somebody approves,” grumbles Abbie, rubbing out a knot that’s forming in the back of her neck.

            “Uh-oh. I thought Crane looked a little weird. On a scale of one to that time we all were watching Game of Thrones, how bad was he flustered?”

            “Beyond that. And it wasn’t funny at all.” Just the memory of it now sparks a thick sense of skin-crawling anxiety that makes Abbie grimace.

            “Yikes,” comes the soft reply. Jenny sounds stunned. “I figured he’d be a little thrown off but it’s not like sex with no strings was invented in 2015. You know there were people up and down the 18th century sinning their colonial asses off. Thomas Jefferson alone.”

            “I said as much. But I’m not sure it was the sex thing. I mean, that was definitely part of it, but there was more to it.” The conversation is stuck on a loop in Abbie’s head. Despite how often she’s turned it over, she still can’t quite figure out Crane’s initial reaction. He was shocked, sure, but there was something else there, he’d looked almost…

            Abbie stops, catching herself. “You know what? I’m reading too much into this. It was fine; we went out for breakfast after.” Granted, it had been the longest forty-eight minutes of her life and the little conversation they had had felt forced—

            “Did he say he was happy for you?” Jenny asks.

            Abbie thinks about lying to her sister, just for a second. “He said I deserved to be happy.”

            “That’s not the same thing, Abbie.”

            “I know.” She doesn’t get what’s going on, but one thing’s for sure: there will be no repeats of that tense breakfast. If Crane’s still in a funk when she sees him tomorrow, they’re not doing anything until they have a conversation.

            Jenny huffs. “Well honestly, did he think you were going to stay single forever? You’re smart and funny and you’ve got two back pockets full of bounce—”

            “I’m a catch,” Abbie interjects, smiling.

            “Damn right you’re a catch. And anyway, he is the last person – the absolute _last_ person on earth, in Purgatory or otherwise – who gets to criticize somebody else’s relationship. Not after he pranced around Katrina like an idiot for a solid majority of the year.”

            And just like that, Abbie’s smile is gone. “That’s not fair, Jenny.”

            “No it’s not, because that implies that _she’s_ to blame for every stupid decision he made and I remember a few times he managed it just fine by himself. It got lost under the mourning and the healing but there are amends he needs to make for all that. And even if you forgive him – and I _know_ you do, because that’s your other Witness and your heart’s better than mine,” Jenny goes on, sounding like she’s rolling her eyes, “it doesn’t mean I have to. Not just yet.”

            Abbie bows her head, mouth suddenly dry. “Jenny. Do you have a point?”

            “He’s right about you deserving to be happy. That’s what matters, not how anybody else feels.”

            “Yeah. I know.” Abbie squints at the clock. “How long is your layover?”

            “About ninety minutes. I’ve still got a few thousand more frequent flyer miles to earn. God, I hate airports.” There’s a brief pause. “And Frank is the lamest traveling buddy in the history of ever. He spent the whole flight asleep. He’s _still_ asleep.”

            “Go easy on him. He’s got a few years on us.”

            Jenny makes a pleased sound. “I’ll tell him you said that. Maybe it’ll light a fire under his ass.”

            In the end, Crane winds up beating Abbie to the punch. He’s standing on the porch when she pulls up to the cabin the next morning. His spine is military-straight and his eyes are full of determination she’s come to know too well.

            “Lieutenant,” he begins as she hikes up the stairs, laptop tucked under her arm. “Before we commence with the day’s activities, I should like to discuss what happened yesterday.”

            Once inside, she sets the laptop on the table and turns to lean back against it. Figuring that it’s a waste of time to beat around the bush, Abbie folds her arms across her chest. “Not quite as settled into 2015 as you thought, huh?”

            “Evidently,” Crane mutters, looking and sounding hangdog about it.

            It annoys her a little that she finds it endearing. Crane may misstep here and there but he never means any harm. “Sometimes I forget that a lot of this is still new and strange for you.”

            “That does not excuse my conduct. I had no right to pry in the manner I did. It was ill done and a gross invasion of your privacy.”

            Before they go any further, Abbie’s got to make sure of one thing. “So there’s no judgment? Not even a little bit?”

            “You have done nothing to warrant judgment, Lieutenant. Even if you had,” he continues, voice going firm, “I’ve none of any sort to cast upon you. We are partners after all, and I am not a sententious man by nature.”

            Abbie frowns. “You made that word up.”

            “I did nothing of the kind. But it remains that judgment was the impression I left you with yesterday. I deeply regret that, and for parting ways as we did. Forgive me.”

            Abbie studies his earnest expression and feels the last remnants of tension begin to melt away. The relief that comes sweeping in to replace it makes her grin.

            “You get so formal when you apologize. It’s nice.” That throws him off guard and he blinks a couple of times, pressing his lips into a thin line. “No, don’t give me that look, I mean it!” she says, catching him before he can turn away. “Seriously. Genuine apologies are hard to come by these days. Especially from guys.”

            “Impossible thing,” he huffs under his breath, shaking his head and yeah, they’re going to be just fine.

            Abbie nudges him. “We good now?”

            “Indeed. You’ve an opportunity for happiness and in truth, I am glad of it. Mr. Riggs seems a likeable sort with an easy way about him. He must have earned your respect for you to take him as your paramour.” Abbie’s expression flattens, tripping Crane up again. “Not a good term?”

            “For a Jane Austen novel, maybe.”

            “You have stated that he is not your _boyfriend_ – a term I find puerile in and of itself,” Crane mutters, lip curling. “What am I to call him, then?”

            Abbie thinks about saying the words ‘fuck buddy’ to Crane, just for pure entertainment value. “Try ‘Calvin’. I think that could work.”

            As it turns out, it doesn’t matter because Crane doesn’t bring up Calvin again. The episode slips almost entirely out of her mind until an afternoon a few weeks later. It’s been one of those rare slow days at the station and Abbie, caught up on work, wanders into the archives to pester Crane for a while. Long after they’ve delved into a companionable silence, Abbie’s phone goes off. Ten minutes into a text conversation she glances up to find Crane’s eyes on her, watching. Wondering. He doesn’t look away fast enough to avoid being caught.

            She doesn’t have to tell him, but she does. “Joey Corbin,” she murmurs, holding up her phone. “He’s doing a little favor for me.”

            The line of Crane’s shoulders relaxes. “How is young master Corbin?”

            “Busy. The program is rigorous but he loves every minute of it.” Joe is going to do great things for the force. Abbie wonders if the sense of pride she feels in him is anything like what Corbin felt for her.

            After considering her response, Crane tilts his head a little and asks, almost hesitantly, “Do you ever regret that you did not go to Quantico as you planned, Lieutenant?”      

            Abbie smiles at him. “Not anymore.”

 

* * *

 

            The last day of May, Jenny calls Abbie.

            “Merchandise acquired!” she announces. “Six books, in and out with neither muss nor fuss. Hold your applause, please.”

            Abbie sinks into her chair, relieved. “When’s your flight back?”

            “Ah, bit of a snag. One of these things is written in what I think might be a dialect of ancient Nubian. I’m sending Frank back stateside with the other books while I get a translation for this one.”

            “Jenny,” says Abbie, gritting her teeth.

            “Before you start, I’ll be spending the next week in a Calgary hotel room eating Chinese food while my friend translates the text.” Jenny pauses. “My friend the linguistics professor. Nothing to worry about and nothing I can’t do on my own. Not that having Frank aboard hasn’t been a lemon cream delight,” she adds, voice going so snide it takes Abbie back a little.

            “Speaking of lemons, Jen. Damn.”

            “It’s his fault. Frank’s…better at this than I thought he’d be,” she gripes. “He _knows_ he’s good. It’s irritating.”

            “He showed you up,” teases Abbie. For all that she’s competitive, Abbie’s got nothing on Jenny. “Didn’t think a regular Joe police cop could roll with you, huh?”

            “Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

            Irving takes a couple of days to get past the jetlag but turns up at the cabin over the weekend.

            “I heard you made my sister a little nervous out there,” says Abbie when she pulls open the door.

            “And I heard you were a little critical of my age,” replies Irving, passing her the books.

            Crane wants to hear all about Irving’s trip over lunch but the less Abbie knows about it, the better. Instead they examine the books and go over some of the notes Irving and Jenny made after doing a little preliminary skimming. There’s a sense of déjà-vu that comes over Abbie as she’s flipping a few weatherworn pages. A part of her mind that’s been dormant for the last several months suddenly kicks on.

            “These glyphs,” she says, smoothing down the page to show Crane. “I’ve seen markings like these before.”

            “They bear familiarity to symbols noted in Grace Dixon’s journal,” he affirms, leaning down for a closer look.

            Abbie studies the line nearest to his index finger. The glyphs are arranged in different patterns, some repeating in sequence. “I think they might be spells.”

            Crane glances at her. “The Fenestella was a repository of magical texts. Perhaps Miss Dixon’s entries can shed some light on—”

            “Yo.” Abbie looks around to find Irving regarding them both with an unimpressed look. “Nerd out on your own time. Somebody owes me an after lunch show.”

            Abbie sighs, already regretting her decision before Crane even goes to get the swords. Irving settles back into Abbie’s usual spot on the couch in the meanwhile. She hasn’t had the rapier in her hand for ten seconds before he starts in.

            “You look like something out of a comic book.” Abbie swivels her head to glare at him. “Just an observation.”

            “You gonna be like this the whole time?”

            Irving smirks. “Maybe.”

            Crane’s still got to use a little restraint when they spar, but Abbie’s definitely gotten better at this; she’s much quicker on her feet now. Crane’s a perceptive son of a gun but she doesn’t telegraph her moves nearly as much as she used to which means that sometimes, she can get the upper hand.

            “A little awkward, but you manage,” surmises Irving after a couple of rounds. “I’m concerned you might tip over, though.”

            “You’ve got a lot of mouth for a guy warming the bench,” she tosses back.

            “You challenging me to a duel, Mills?”

            “If you think you can hang.” Abbie flicks the rapier in Irving’s direction. “I seem to remember you getting pretty friendly with a katana, Mr. Mortal Kombat.”

            “I have the finesse to pull it off, though.”

            Abbie’s sword arm drops a few inches. “And I don’t?”

            “Children,” Crane murmurs, glancing between them. “You are unduly critical of the lieutenant, Captain Irving.”

            “Thank you,” says Abbie, casting a petty look Irving’s way.

            “It is true,” continues Crane, “that her technique is questionable but it must be measured against the progress she’s made. When I began her instruction, she was barely able to manage a proper lunge.”

            Oh, look at these fucking two here. “Go to hell,” says Abbie. “Both of you.”

            Crane smirks and says, “You master so much of what you do,” as they match blades again. “It is rare for me to have the opportunity to best you in something.”

            “Your life is a tragedy,” she replies dryly. “So when I inevitably master fencing, what’s that gonna leave you with?”

            “My memory,” he says, blocking Abbie’s attempt to slash at him, “and my skill with a gun.”

            Abbie’s eyes go wide as dinner plates, and everything comes to a screeching halt. Slowly, she lowers her sword. “What did you just say to me?” she demands.

            A single eyebrow makes a slow climb up his forehead. “I don’t believe I misspoke.”

            “That’s funny because I’m sure you did. I’m pretty sure you just insinuated that your shot is better than mine.”

            A corner of Crane’s mouth lifts. “Not an insinuation. An assertion. My shot _is_ better than yours.”

            The sound of Irving’s belly-deep chuckle fills the room. Crane doesn’t acknowledge him, holding Abbie’s gaze steadily as she stares him down. Regarding him now, all rakish eyes and smug little smile, she has no trouble at all imagining him as he must have been in his own time: a gallant, confident Patriot leaving a string of charmed Continental housemaids behind as he swept across the East Coast to free the country from the empire.

            It’s a shame, really. Because now he has to die.

            “Take it back,” she commands.

            Crane’s lips purse in mock contemplation. “No, I don’t think I shall.”

            “You’re gonna take that back, Crane.”

            “And if I do not?”

            “I wreck your life,” says Abbie, “and make you eat every single syllable of that lie you just told.”

            “My, but your attempts at intimidation are novel. Please do go on, this is most amusing.”

            Abbie sets her sword on the table, reaching for her discarded holster. “Frank,” she says without looking away from Crane, “come and watch tall dark and sassy get his ass handed to him.”

            The horrors Crane’s learned about pollution and climate change have made him a staunch environmental nut, so there’s enough cans and bottles lying around in wait of recycling to make it a decent contest.      

            “No trash talk, Lieutenant?” Crane inquires mildly as Irving assembles a few cans on the posts at the edge of the pond’s water line.

            Abbie checks the rounds in her gun. “You couldn’t handle my trash talk.”

            “Such self-assurance, Lieutenant. It’s quite striking.”

            “As someone who’s been at the range with Mills, Crane, a little advice? Don’t rattle the bars.” Irving leans back, admiring the neat row of cans. “Increments of twenty five paces.”

            Crane matches Abbie shot for shot all the way back to a hundred and fifty. It’s got him feeling himself too because he comments in a way Abbie guesses is supposed to be off-handed, “I was the best sharpshooter in my regiment,” as they reload. “General Washington singled me out for special commendation on several different occasions.”

            Abbie throws the back of her hand against her forehead and flutters her eyelashes, tipping her head backwards. “Quick, Frank—to the fainting couch, I think I’m having a swoon.”

            “You are _unbearable_ ,” Crane mutters, rubbing a temple.

            Abbie kisses the air and chirps, “Do we have enough bottles for moving targets, Frank?”

            “Enough for three chances each. I’ll throw.”

            It’s a nice, clear shot across the pond, out of the glare of the afternoon sun. Abbie glances up at Crane again. “You’re looking a little unsteady on your feet there, Cap’n.”

            “Nonsense.”

            “Last chance,” she warns, unapologetically devilish. “Maybe I’ll show you mercy.”

            “I fear it is far too late for me to earn your mercy now,” he murmurs with an oddly sincere, barely-there smile. “I am well and truly doomed.”

            Abbie grins, baring her teeth. “Go first and get it over with.”

            Irving lobs the first bottle into the air over the pond. Crane takes aim, fires, and misses. It’s a near thing, Abbie thinks, keeping her expression neutral as the bottle drops into the water with a wonderfully satisfying splash. It seems to surprise Crane a little. He squares his shoulders and mutters, “Again,” to Irving.

            The second toss sails even higher into the air, which means it makes an even _more_ satisfying splash when he misses it this time. Abbie leans her hip against the post, watching the bottle crash into the pond.

            “See, right about now,” Irving says conversationally as he reaches for another bottle, “if I were in Abbie’s place, I’d be clowning the hell out of you.”

            “Once more,” Crane commands as he collects his dignity.

            The three of them watch bottle number three go flying. Crane lines up his shot and holds for one second, two, before firing. Abbie’s not surprised to see the bottle burst and he’s not as pleased as he wants to be about it. The eyes he turns on Abbie are satisfied to have made the hit but the confident veneer has fractured.

            Abbie gives Crane a measured look. She trudges over to scoop up the remaining three bottles by their necks. Crane’s eyes follow her as Abbie passes them to Irving before facing the pond and lifting her gun. “Pull.”

            Irving casts the bottles in high arcs over the water. Abbie’s eyes track them as they soar into the air, then hover, suspended in that second before they start to fall. She takes a breath and fires three quick shots. Glass explodes over the pond in a concussive _pop-pop-pop_ , sprinkling down to blanket the water.

            Abbie turns around to look at Crane again, blowing a puff of air at the barrel of her gun and then holstering it. “I take it back,” he declares in a solemn voice.

            “It’s okay, Crane,” she says lightly, patting his chest as she brushes past him, “I won’t tell anybody.”

            Irving claps Crane on the shoulder and says, “I’m gonna.”

 

* * *

 

            It takes Jenny’s linguistics friend ten days to complete the translation. Jenny’s return home coincides with Calvin’s June visit which means there’s no avoiding her sister’s running commentary now that the cat’s out of the bag.

            “I just want you to know,” says Jenny over the phone the afternoon before her flight, “that I’ll totally understand if I don’t see much of you this weekend.” There’s a pause. “Unless you two are going to be at the apartment. Oh god, please tell me you’re not gonna be at the apartment.”

            “No,” Abbie replies a little sharper than she meant it but _really_ , there’s no way in hell.

            “Good. Because while I’m happy for you, I do not want to be subjected to hearing you and your lover go at it. I’ve suffered enough in my life, I think. Plus,” Jenny continues, brightening up, “if you’re not at home, I can have a sleepover of my own.”

            “ _No_ , Jenny.” Mostly because Abbie doesn’t trust her sister to keep her activities confined to her own bedroom. Abbie’s fond of her living room furniture. And her kitchen counter.

            “Ugh, fine. But really though Abbs, don’t worry about me. Get your freak on.”

            “Do me a favor and _never say that to me again_.”

            “There are condoms in my room if you need any,” says Jenny in a stage whisper.

            Abbie hangs up.

            “Does your brother get on you?” she asks Calvin the next morning. “About your love life, I mean.”

            Calvin snorts. “Oh yeah. Daniel’s ribbing is legendary. Why? Is your sister on your case now that I’m not a secret anymore?”

            “You weren’t a secret,” she says absently as she combs her fingers through her hair. “Maybe I should’ve expected it. Jenny’s never been shy about speaking her mind.”

            That has Calvin looking a little confused. “She hasn’t given you a hard time with your past relationships?”

            Abbie opens her mouth before catching herself. “She doesn’t know about a lot of them,” is what she ends up saying. It’s near enough to the truth, since Calvin doesn’t know about the demon in the woods and how Jenny had been taken from her.

            Calvin takes that in stride. “So I’m the first she’s disapproved of, huh?”

            “Opposite, actually. She approves _too_ much.”

            Calvin laughs. “Ah, I see. If it’s any consolation, Daniel’s the same way. Being the oldest sucks sometimes.”

            “The struggle,” Abbie agrees, disappearing into the shower.

            After she’s put herself back together, Abbie joins him downstairs in the kitchen where Calvin pours her a cup of coffee. “Sticking around for breakfast?”

            Abbie shakes her head. “I’ve gotta get to the station. Tomorrow, though?”

            “Of course. Hey, when was the last time you were in the city?”

            “It’s been a while,” she admits. In the years before Corbin, Abbie used to take the train down several times a month, sometimes looking for a party and other times looking for a fight. She’d found far too much of both. It was always her plan to visit again at some point because New York City is something that Crane has to see, but the last two years had been crisis after apocalyptic crisis and there had been no time.

            Abbie quirks an eyebrow at Calvin. “You inviting me down?”

            “Just to change it up sometime,” he says, shrugging. “We could take in a show, get lost in a museum, maybe swing by the Garden to watch my poor Knicks get mopped.”

            Abbie mulls over the possibility as she finishes her coffee. “It’s a whole lot of people and noise. I’m not sure if you’re worth the trouble, frankly.”

            Calvin’s chuckling as he walks her to the door where she pauses to take one last look at herself in the mirror. “I could convince you, I bet.”

            “I’m a hard sell, Riggs.” He steps up behind her, the length of him a solid weight against her back. Abbie finds his eyes in the glass. “And you’re notoriously not so good with words.”

            “It wouldn’t involve much talking,” he replies, making Abbie laugh now. His hands settle around her hips and she leans back into the embrace. Calvin presses his lips to the spot behind her ear, gazing at their reflections. “We look good together,” he murmurs.

            Abbie watches herself smile. “We do.”

            Having some of the Fenestella books provides a nice change of pace. Abbie doesn’t want to make a habit of Jenny _acquiring_ materials they need for the war – at least not in ways that were so blatantly illegal – but considering that they have no solid game plan and no idea what the apocalypse will throw at them next, Abbie will take what she can get in terms of aid.

            Crane loses himself in the research and Abbie gets sucked down the rabbit hole with him. The warmth of June becomes an oppressive wave of blinding, merciless heat and as July bleeds into August, something occurs to Abbie.

            “You haven’t asked me anything in a while.” Crane’s eyes flicker up from his pile of notes. “About history or politics, I mean.”

            “Is that a note of regret I hear?”

            Abbie snorts. “More like relief. I was going to start charging a fee for my services.”

            “You wound me.” Crane’s voice is toneless. He goes back to making notations in the book of spells Abbie has already worked her way through. “If it is your intention to ask if my interest has faded, worry not. Despite the momentary peace in the war, I still consider our work in that endeavor my priority.” He glances up again. “As do you, clearly.”

            Abbie smiles self-effacingly. “Guess you can’t take the apocalypse out of the Witness.”

            “And to think, you feared complacency,” he says, giving her an amused look.

            “I had hoped the lack of questions meant that maybe you finally warmed up to the Internet.”

            “It is an admittedly helpful tool. In truth, I have accessed it on more than one occasion to assist with our current research.”

            Abbie pretends to sniffle. “My boy’s all grown up.”

            Crane rolls his eyes, then narrows them at her. “A helpful _tool_. It in no way serves as a replacement for books _or_ for conversation. Enjoy your reprieve while you can, Lieutenant. It shall last only as long as this research does.”

            Abbie hums, pulling her arms over her head in a much-needed stretch. She’s been, for lack of a better word, craned over this table for a few hours with him now. “I don’t know. I’m glad to have these books and all, but I still think a little normal has been nice. Good for us, even.”

            “Indeed,” he responds, and Abbie goes back to her research.

            It’s several minutes before either of them speaks again. Then, out of nowhere Crane says, “It occurs to me that I’ve not yet reacquainted myself with your Mr. Riggs,” lifting Abbie’s gaze from her book.

            “Do you have to say his name like that?”

            “Like what?”

            “Like you’re calling him something different in your head,” Abbie accuses. “And he’s not _my_ Mr. Riggs.”

            “You quibble now. To my original point: you have been keeping his company for months and I’ve yet to encounter him. Is he still abroad?”

            “Yeah. South America, somewhere.”

            “When is he due to return?”

            Abbie flips a page. “That depends on how long this latest story takes him.”

            There is silence for a moment. “You know neither where he is nor when he is likely to return?”

            Abbie opens her mouth, then closes it, looking up at him again. “You driving at something here?”

            Crane shakes his head innocuously. “It is merely strange to think that he does not keep you apprised of his location, nor of when he shall see you again.”

            Abbie closes her book entirely. “Do you remember that whole partners-no-judgment thing?”

            “I do not judge you, Lieutenant.” His fingers are fluttering errantly on the table.

            “But you’re judging him.”

            “I judge any man involved with any woman, no matter how superficially, that does not do her the decency of making her aware of where he is and when he will return to her.”

            Abbie licks her lips. “Did it ever occur to you that the two of us have much better things to do when we’re together than discuss his globetrotting?”

            That snaps Crane’s mouth closed. A flush makes a slow creep up from under his collar. “That was quite beneath you, Lieutenant,” he murmurs reproachfully.

            “You were getting puffy,” she retorts flatly. “Crane, I don’t care where Calvin is or where he goes, or if I don’t have a sure date or time for when he shows up again. I told you before, we’re not together.”

            Crane nods a little, but the stubborn crease in his brow remains. “It simply seems…untoward.”

            “It’s different,” Abbie corrects. “Different than what you’re used to. That doesn’t necessarily mean bad. I know you heard me the first time when I told you that this is what I wanted so, you know. Take my word for it.”

            The statement paired with an emphatic look mollify Crane and Abbie has to remind herself that, although he’s slightly aggravating, he means well.

            “We’ve got a phrase for that,” she tells him, drawing his eyes back to her. “For what you just did. ‘White-knighting’.” Crane’s frown deepens. “You think a girl’s been done wrong and you swoop in to try and save her.”

            That gets a smile out of him. “I have never met a woman less in need of saving than you, Lieutenant. It is more your Mr. Riggs that is the focus of my attention.”

            “My Mr. Riggs,” Abbie drawls, “is doing _exactly_ what I told him to do. Don’t go questioning his chivalry or whatever.”

            His response is light. “Perhaps my concerns would be allayed were I to encounter him.”

            “We’ll see,” says Abbie, even though somehow, she doubts it.

 

* * *

 

 

            Abbie makes the conscious decision not to buy balloons. That’s probably overdoing it and Crane wouldn’t appreciate it at all. Abbie’s got to put in a full day at the station but makes sure to call Jenny right after her shift as she’s driving to the cabin.

            Crane’s got his nose buried in their notes when Abbie gets over there, as per usual. Draped over the other end of the table is a bag from the local dry cleaners. _Small favors_ , she thinks, unzipping it to find what Crane calls his ‘formal attire’ inside, neatly pressed. Abbie calls it the pilgrim outfit because it’s frilly and ridiculous.

            “Oh look. It’s my favorite thing in the whole wide world,” she comments with false cheer, frowning down at that abomination of a neckline. One of these days she’s going to get him into a proper three piece suit. Maybe walk him down the street and count the number of people that faint when he passes by.

            “I wonder,” says Crane, thoughtfully, “if it would be possible for you to refrain from offering me insult for a full twenty-four hours.”

            She looks up, innocent. “Why? Is today special or something?” Crane rolls his eyes. “So. Two hundred and fifty _two_. How does it feel?”

            “Remarkably similar to four-and-thirty,” he replies matter-of-factly, setting his work aside. “Do you come bearing another cupcake and candle?”

            “I come bearing nothing for ungrateful schmucks. But I may have a little something for my partner and closest friend if he’s around today.” Crane’s gaze grows accusatory. “Oops,” she adds, grinning.

            “Lieutenant, I asked you not to. Very specifically, as I recall.”

            “And it was so cute how you thought I’d actually listen to you.”

            “I should have known better,” he mutters, sighing. “I erred from the first, revealing the date to you at all.”

            “It saved your life,” Abbie points out. “We’re still doing what you wanted: dinner out all together. Low-key. This is just a little something extra, me-to-you. Well, some of it’s Jenny.”

            “That is meant to entice me, is it?”

            “You’re already enticed; I don’t know who you think you’re fooling right now.” Abbie searches his face and smirks. “You _are_.”

            “You’re in rare form today, Lieutenant,” he observes warmly. His eyes are full of curiosity.

            Abbie rocks back and forth on her heels. “Remember where we were this time last year? I think a do-over is definitely in order.”

            “That I cannot deny,” he agrees, “but I sense that there is more at play here.” Abbie hesitates, feeling sheepish all of a sudden. He must sense that too, because his expression gentles. “You needn’t tell me, of course.”

            “No, it’s not…” she trails. It goes without saying that she’s used to keeping a poker face as a cop, but even before that – there’s a bingo hall full of teachers and social workers and doctors and counselors and foster parents who could never quite figure her out. Hell, even Jenny had trouble discerning what she was thinking sometimes.

            “You just read me too well, that’s all,” she says finally, and she’ll be damned if he doesn’t seem pleased with himself. Abbie decides to level with him. “Birthdays were kind of rare for me growing up and after, even with the few friends I had – let’s just say I don’t get to do stuff like this very often.” She pauses, presenting him with the most winning smile she can muster. “Who’s to say I’ll do it again? This is something special here, Crane. You don’t wanna miss out.”

            Crane lingers a moment more before he rises from his chair. “ _Now_ I am enticed. Very well, Lieutenant. What is it you’ve gifted me?”

            Abbie beckons for him to follow her out to the porch after shooting a quick GO text to Jenny. “Two things. You get the first one now and the second one at the end of the night.”

            “This is all rather dictatorial considering it is _my_ birthday.”

            “Keep sassing me. You’re gonna be mighty upset at yourself when you see what I got you.” The first one’s bound to be a hit, at least. The second one Abbie’s not so sure about.

            Her phone pings and Crane catches a glimpse of the screen. “I assume your sister is bringing the gift, then.”

            Abbie nods. “She’ll be here in a minute.” They both turn their attention to the road. Eventually, she glances up. “So the pilgrim outfit. Slow your roll,” she continues as Crane presses the tips of his fingers in his eyes. “I was just going to ask if that was the dress code. You want the rest of us to go formal too?”

            Crane fixes mischievous blue eyes on her. “Now, Lieutenant. You know very well that I have no opinions on what you choose to wear.”

            Just for that, Abbie decides she will.

            The rumble starts in low and faint, barely audible through the forest but Crane picks up on it almost immediately. “Is that…?” he trails, casting a swift look in Abbie’s direction.

            “Dunno,” she replies knowingly.

            Abbie can tell by the noise that Jenny’s speeding down the road and it’s less than a minute later that she appears, guiding the motorcycle up to the cabin. Crane comes _alive_ , rushing off the porch when Jenny is killing the engine.

            Abbie follows him down. Jenny’s got a big grin on her face when she pulls the helmet off.

            “When did you acquire this?” he asks.

            “Recently. Somebody owed me a favor.” Steadying the bike on its kickstand, Jenny dismounts with practiced ease. “Like it?”

            “Immensely,” Crane says absently, circling the bike with keen eyes. Abbie isn’t sure that he knows exactly what he’s looking at, but he’s taken nonetheless. “It is a decidedly impractical form of conveyance yet one is drawn to it all the same.”

            “Of course you’re drawn to it, Captain America,” says Jenny. “The motorcycle is a symbol of freedom.”

            “It’s not top of the line but it’s got a classic look and trusty machinery. A good starter,” Abbie adds pointedly, but Crane’s attention remains fixed.

            “It suits you,” he tells Jenny distractedly, running his fingers over the handlebar. Abbie exchanges a smile with her sister. For somebody so damn smart. “Do you think perhaps I could…?” Crane straightens and looks imploringly at Jenny, then at Abbie. “I shall be cautious and not stray far.”

            “Oh, I think you could do a little more than that,” Abbie retorts with a perfectly straight face.

            Crane frowns. “Lieutenant?”

            Jenny shakes her head. “It’s _yours_ , idiot,” she says, pushing the helmet into his arms. “Happy birthday.”

            It takes a good few minutes of convincing before Crane’s disbelief begins to fade. Abbie makes him swear not to take it onto any main roads until he’s got a proper license. Which is more about her than him because Abbie _knows_ him; he’s going to be cruising down the interstate the minute she’s not looking.

            There isn’t a whole lot of time for a proper test drive before they have to get ready to meet Irving for dinner. Abbie spends the drive back to the apartment mentally rifling through her closet but by the time she’s home, she still hasn’t decided.

            It occurs to her that she shouldn’t be putting that much thought into this. It’s that notion that propels Abbie to turn to Jenny and say, “I’m thinking of dressing up.”

            Jenny’s eyes get real big. “Let me pick it out. You have to. Please please _please_.”

            There’s another ten minutes of indecision in Abbie’s room where Jenny’s first four suggestions are shot down in quick succession. Eventually Jenny pulls out a peach-colored dress that doesn’t automatically make Abbie wince. It goes past her knees, but it’s strapless. And clingy.

            “No.” Jenny hands her the hanger. “I can see you talking yourself out of it. This is the one.” She’s not satisfied until she’s zipping Abbie into it and—

            “Oh, Jen. It’s too clingy.”

            “Nope, that’s all she wrote. Come on, we’re going to be late!”

            Nerves are roiling in Abbie’s stomach as they drive back over to the cabin to get Crane, but it’s got nothing to do with the dress. Her mind is on gift number two, wrapped and resting in the backseat of the jeep. Jenny catches her looking at it in the rearview.

            “I still say you’re worried over nothing,” Jenny tells her. “He’s gonna be over the damn moon.”

            “You don’t know that.”

            “Abbie. Stop worrying.”

            “At least he liked the bike.” Abbie glances over at Jenny. “You didn’t have to do that, by the way.”

            Jenny smiles, looking out the window. “Eh, it was a good idea. A motorcycle isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever been paid on a job.”

            Abbie takes a breath. “I know you’re still ticked at him about things that happened last year, so I appreciate you helping me with this.”

            Jenny drums her fingers on the window ledge. “He’s had a rough year,” she says at length, only slightly begrudging. “Maybe I was a little harsh on him. Well, not on _him_ because c’mon, he fucked up royally, but the making amends part. He and I were talking after I got back from Canada and—”

            “You talked about me?”

            “Not _about_ ,” Jenny clarifies. “You cropped up here and there, though. And – I don’t know, I could hear it in his voice. Can’t you?” Abbie blinks at Jenny, who shakes her head. “No you _can’t_ , can you? The hell kind of Quantico candidate are you, huh?”

            “Jenny,” Abbie sighs, but Jenny cuts her off.

            “You’re all he’s got, Abbie,” she says, and Abbie retrains her eyes on the road. “I think it really shook him up, Katrina almost killing you. Whatever the apocalypse is going to throw at you two, I don’t think you ever have to worry about him taking somebody else’s side over yours again.”

            Abbie thinks about the day she’d first seen him in the holding cells. Seven weeks later she was clutching his hand and begging him not to die. “He was all I had too, once,” she tells Jenny.

            Once they’re back at the cabin, Jenny helps Abbie fish the present out of the backseat. Making the hike up the porch stairs in heels for the first time is a little treacherous, but Abbie manages.

            There’s no sign of Crane when they get inside, but the dry cleaning bag is missing. Just as well, as it gives Abbie a chance to situate the gift on the table. She uses their research mess to obscure it just enough so that Crane won’t notice it now.

            “A moment!” comes Crane’s voice from the back of the cabin, apparently having heard them.

            Jenny whips around to face Abbie. “Go to the kitchen. I’m serious, _get_ ,” she urges when Abbie just stares at her.

            “This is so dumb,” groans Abbie even as she allows Jenny to push her around the corner where Crane won’t see her right away. She leans back against the wall and listens. Down the hall, a door opens and she counts the footsteps until—

            “Oh Crane, the pilgrim outfit? For real?”

            “As I have told both you and your sister countless times before, that moniker is _inaccurate_ in addition to being juvenile.”

            “Whatever, it’s like a thousand degrees outside. You’re gonna roast.”

            “Might I remind you I would wear much the same in a time without the relief of air conditioning?”

            Abbie’s phone buzzes in her clutch and she decides that now’s a good enough time as any to come around the corner. “That was Irving,” she announces, thumbing a quick reply. “He says he’s about ten minutes out so we better get a move on.”

            Crane’s eyes are wider than Abbie’s ever seen them before when she finally looks up from her phone. She’d been expecting to throw him off guard – that’s the point, after all. What she did not expect, however, was for him to be so damn _open_ about it. There is zero masking the blatant way he _drags_ his eyes down, then up, and then down again and…well. He’s seen women in bodycon dresses before but nothing that’s ever stopped him in his tracks like this.

            Warmth erupts all over Abbie and she feels sudden, visceral satisfaction. The notion is vaguely wrong but she can’t bring herself to care.

            “Eyes up, soldier,” she says after a good ten seconds pass in total silence.

            Crane jumps at being caught and his eyes go even wider, like maybe he hadn’t even realized what he was doing and oh, that’s even _better_.

            “Are you ready?” Abbie asks him and there’s absolutely no fighting back her smile.

            “I…yes.” Crane shakes his head a little and clears his throat. He moves forward, stopping when he’s a few feet in front of her. The heels shoot Abbie up a couple inches – not enough to bring her eye level with Crane, but still enough for it to be a significant difference.

            “Lieutenant,” he says, trying to start over. He can’t seem to decide where to put his eyes, though; his gaze darts from her bare neck and shoulders, her eyes, her lips, _down_ again. “I…you look…”

            “I need complete sentences here, Crane.” He’s tied his hair back tonight, giving Abbie a perfect view of his face as he turns pink. Out of the corner of her eye, Abbie can see Jenny covering her mouth with a hand. “Bet you’ve got an opinion or two about what I wear now, huh?”

            “Please stop,” he says weakly as he closes his eyes, making Abbie laugh in her throat.

            Her grin becomes smaller, softer and she cannot _resist_. “The blush makes you even more handsome, you know.”

            “ _Lieutenant_.”

            Jenny breezes past them, opening the door. “Backseat, Crane. I’ve got shotgun.” Crane takes the out Jenny offers and sweeps onto the porch. When he’s out of earshot Jenny swivels back and shoots a look of pure glee at Abbie and says, “Not quite Game of Thrones, but damn close,” before heading after Crane.

            Giving one last glance to the table, Abbie follows them out.

            After an incredibly delicious Italian meal, Abbie’s had just enough wine to let Crane talk her into karaoke at their usual place. He doesn’t do much singing anymore – which is a real shame, Abbie thinks, because the talent _is_ there, they just have to find him the right song – but he enjoys the atmosphere all the same and he spends his time knocking back beers and goading the three of them into singing.

            Which they do, taking turns going solo or performing duets. Irving’s got quite the set of pipes on him come to find out, and he plays the Marvin to Abbie’s Tammi for a couple of rounds. Abbie has a genuinely good time and it’s the happiest Crane’s looked all year, which makes the day a complete success in Abbie’s book.

            Nearly. One more thing.

            As the night winds down, Jenny announces her intention to hitch a ride home with Irving. It sets Abbie’s nerves flaring all over again. Jenny squeezes her arm and gives her an encouraging look as she and Irving say their good nights and ten minutes later, Abbie’s precariously climbing up the porch stairs once more.

            Crane’s fingers find her elbow to help steady her. “However do you manage to walk in those ludicrous shoes?”

            “Practice,” she answers as he pulls the door open for her. “You don’t like ‘em?”

            “They seem dangerous.”

            “I like danger, though. Don’t you?” The question isn’t loaded, but Crane looks at her as though it is. Abbie waves a hand, dismissive. “So it was fun, huh?”

            “It truly was. A fine end to a fine day.”

            “Not quite the end yet, hotshot. Did you forget?” Crane blinks. Yeah, he forgot. “Two gifts, remember?”

            “Ah, yes. Although I fear it may be difficult to outdo the first.”

            “Maybe,” she replies with a little chuckle, heading into the kitchen. “I’m making tea. Your present’s on the table.”

            When it’s brewed, Abbie joins Crane. The research has been pushed aside and he’s sitting there, contemplating the gift. “The paper dressing you’ve selected for this is singularly garish.”

            “Should be fun for you to rip it to shreds then.” Abbie passes him one of the mugs and takes the chair opposite of him. “Go on, get to ripping.”

            It takes Crane a second. The book is heavy and Abbie wrapped it pretty well. Multicolor party hats and confetti-filled balloons are torn to pieces and crumpled under his big hands until it’s revealed.

            “‘A Brief History of the Union, Volume one’,” he reads aloud. He turns the massive book over, glancing at the summary.

            “Starring all your old crew,” says Abbie brightly. “I figured that it was high time we got you a cohesive narrative since you’re forever running off the tracks. And if you start here, you’ll be picking up right where you left off.”

            “Such a droll little thing you are.” He seems legitimately puzzled, which is exactly where she wants him.

            Elbows braced on the table, she leans forward, bringing the mug to her lips. “It’s got all kinds of details: newspaper articles and letters and copies of government documents. Including a full spread of the Constitution.” Abbie sips her tea. “Page 87.”

            Crane takes the hint and opens the mammoth book. Its cover thumps the desk hard and he flips the pages until Abbie can see the blown-up image of faded parchment.

            Abbie isn’t looking at that, though. Her eyes are where Crane’s are: on the slim white envelope tucked neatly between the preamble and Article I.

            Crane’s fingers trace his name, scrawled on the front in Abbie’s cursive. Glancing up at her quizzically, he slides a thumb under the flap and pulls out what’s inside. Again he looks surprised and this time, maybe a little disappointed. Abbie wonders if he’d been expecting a handwritten letter. She watches him as he unfolds the document and begins to read, her heart pumping full throttle.

            She gives him a minute. Legal documents are complex and wordy for no goddamn reason. Abbie had wanted to pull her hair out that first semester of law in college. Crane’s overly wordy himself though, and a pretty smart cookie to boot so he may have an advantage. Eventually she has to set the mug down and clasp her hands together on the table to mask the tremor in them.

            She had figured, when he finally did finish and glance up again, that he might still be a little confused.

            He isn’t.

            “Miss Mills,” he rasps. Oh boy. Crane doesn’t usually call her that anymore, not unless he’s startled or frightened or completely at a loss.

            Abbie manages a faint smile. “Joe says hi.”

            Crane lowers the deed, eyes flicking between it and Abbie.

            “One more thing to cross off that list of stuff you need for 21st century life,” she offers. When Crane still doesn’t speak, the last vestiges of Abbie’s confidence fade away. She drops her eyes to her lap. “In Maddy’s diner, months ago, you said you used to feel like you were adrift. Not belonging anywhere was a thing for me for a long time. Even after Corbin when everything got better, I still…nothing felt right. Not completely.” She takes a deep breath. “Then you showed up.”

            The statement hangs in the air, and Abbie glances up. Crane’s eyes are teeming with awe, unabashed and raw.

            “I know what it’s like to lose everything you’ve ever known in an instant. I know how it feels to not have a place you can call home. It’s—” _Something that used to eat me up inside_. “-–something you shouldn’t have to go through, not – not on top of everything else. And it’s not like you have to stay here forever. Eventually you could, you know, find yourself something different but for now, at least you can say you’ve got a place of your own and you’re going to have to join the conversation at some point here, Crane,” Abbie concludes in an unsteady rush.

            Crane’s throat works in a dry swallow. “Abbie. Oh, Abbie.”

            “Too much?” she asks timidly. “Did I go too far?”

            “You—” Crane splutters. “Unbelievable. You are unbelievable. You present me a gift with meaning unparalleled to anything I have ever received, with more thought and care than I…” He swallows again. “You fear you have _offended_ me?”

            Abbie bites her lips. “This is okay, then?”

            “Okay,” he echoes. “This…I can hardly…”

            “You can’t blame me for asking,” Abbie says as the knots in her stomach finally begin to loosen. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this speechless before.”                     

            “You have given me a _home_.”

            “Technically Joe did,” Abbie points out a little sheepishly.

            Crane’s eyes slide shut. “Why must you do that? Why must you deflect my admiration?” Abbie closes her mouth. “ _You_ did this. For me. Though you have already done so much.”

            “I’d do more,” she intones, quiet and honest.

            Crane just shakes his head in mute disbelief, lips pressing together. When the next breath he inhales is hitched, Abbie’s heart plummets into her shoes.

            “Crane,” she warns, voice thick. “Crane, don’t.”

            He makes a valiant effort to gather himself. “I’m fine.”

            “Seriously, please don’t. I can’t handle that.” Abbie never wants to see him cry again, ever. The long, awful stretch of those initial days after Katrina is burned into her memory, one more thing on a list of too many she wishes she could forget.

            “You should be more mindful, then, of the power of your generosity.” Crane looks her right in the face, watery eyes and all. “Abbie. _Abbie_.”

            “And you thought I couldn’t outdo the bike,” Abbie quips. She raps the table with her knuckles, clearing her throat. “Come on, now. No getting verklempt.”

            Crane leans back a little. “What did you call me?”

            Abbie sighs. _She’s_ the impossible one, though. “Look it up.”

            Crane insists on reaching out to Joe and thanking him personally, just like Abbie knew he would. It doesn’t change much on the surface; it’s been a long time since it’s been _Corbin’s_ cabin in her mind but it seems to have shifted something in Crane’s own head. He slips the deed into the desk drawer, on top of the grand grimoire. He doesn’t even react to the sight of it before he’s sliding the drawer shut again.

            After, he grows quiet and contemplative and even though the silence is comfortable, Abbie knows that this is a big thing for him and a lot to think about, so she finishes her tea and decides to call it a night.

            The air is humid and thick with the sound of crickets and cicadas when they step outside. Abbie moseys down the porch stairs, Crane a pace away.

            “A little something,” he says. “Quite the understatement you made earlier.”

            Abbie glances his way. “If I’d hyped it up, it would’ve taken the fun out of it.”

            He hums. “Suffice it to say that today was certainly not what I expected it to be.”

            “You know I live for keeping you on your toes.”

            “Something you do quite well.” Crane suddenly stops when they are a few feet from the jeep, turning to face her. It takes him a minute to choose his words and in the thick, drawn-out silence Abbie’s heart picks up speed all over again.

            “I…” He starts, only to falter and stop for another quiet moment. “I haven’t words sufficient enough to convey the depth of my gratitude. For today and for everything you have done in the past.”

            “You’re welcome,” says Abbie, smiling up at him.

            He goes silent again, regarding her with eyes that are deep and intent. “You’ve no idea,” he murmurs, like a secret. “You haven’t the faintest idea how treasured you are, how much I…”

            His voice fades away when Abbie reaches out to take his hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze. When Crane pulls just a little, Abbie goes willingly. There’s a desperate edge to the arms that come around to envelope her and pull her closer still until she’s flush against him. His hand is pressed to her back, warm on her naked skin.

            “Thank you,” he murmurs into her hair. Abbie hangs on a little tighter.

 


	4. Chapter 4

PART IV

 

* * *

 

 

            Calvin comes back in early September. They’d had to skip out on August and Abbie doesn’t make it five feet through the door before he’s reaching down to seal his mouth to hers. After, he orders Chinese food and they spread it out over his bed.

            “I can’t stay long this time,” he says, stealing one of her egg rolls. “I’ve got to be on a plane to Tokyo day after tomorrow.”

            His jetlag must roll over like cell phone minutes. “So I guess a trip to the city isn’t happening this go ‘round.”

            “No trips of any kind,” Calvin states blithely as he reclines against the headboard, “because we aren’t leaving this bed for the next forty-eight hours.”

            Abbie considers that, selecting another piece of cashew chicken from the carton. “There’s one or two people that might come looking for me if I went missing.”

            “Eh, I think I could take the British guy. Your sister, on the other hand…”

            It’s an opening, and Abbie can’t put it off any longer. “They’ve been asking after you. How would you feel about us all getting together one night?”

            Calvin smirks, slow and puckish. “You wanna show me off.”

            “I want to get my nosey friends off my back,” Abbie corrects him.

            “Well how can I refuse when you put it like that?” Calvin replies, shooting her a dry look. He chews on the idea for a moment. “I never did get a chance to thank your partner for helping to save Daniel. I owe him a drink, at least.”

            “So that’s a yes?”

            “Only if you admit that I’ll be the finest piece of arm-candy you ever took out.”

            Abbie throws a chopstick at him.

            “So I thought about what you said,” she says to Crane when she sees him some days later. “About Calvin.”

            He’s predictably insufferable about it, face a picture of innocence save for the quirk in his mouth. “Have you, now?”

            “I’m doing this against my better judgment, but…drinks. Third Saturday of next month. You can go ahead and wipe that cute look off your face,” she continues pleasantly, “because it makes me want to slap you.”

            “As you may cease your pretense of martyrdom – you do _nothing_ not of your own volition. You want me to better acquaint myself with your Mr. Riggs.”

            “I want you to stop judging him for no reason. There’s a difference, see.”

            That puts a slight crease between his eyebrows. “My opinion of him bothers you so?”

            “It’s unwarranted.” Abbie pauses before plowing on, “And maybe I see a pattern here, from a guy who says it isn’t in his nature to judge at all.”

            Crane goes still then, regarding her with eyes that are suddenly cagey. “I beg your pardon?”

            “You were like this about Hawley, too.”

            “Mr. Hawley,” he says in a soft voice, “was an avaricious brigand that –”

            “I’m talking about before that, on the docks when we first met him. You’d already formed an opinion about him way before the Piper.”

            “And I was _right_ , as it happened.”

            “Not in the long run, you weren’t.” Abbie turns her eyes to the ceiling. “Not Hawley, then – social media, pop culture, public policy. Crane, you have a tendency to look down on things before you fully understand them.”

            Crane blinks in surprise, face going blank. Abbie braces her elbows on the table as she goes on, “It’s not ignorance, I know that. It’s a time-traveling thing. But you’re also an Oxford professor and kind of a Founding Father, so I’m gonna need your learning curve to be better in some places.” She smiles to take some the sting out of her words.

            Crane soaks that in quietly for a bit, brows furrowed. “I did not expect to hear that,” he admits at length.

            “On your toes,” Abbie reminds him.

            Three weeks later, Crane finally finishes examining the Fenestella books. At this point and after reading all six of them cover to cover, some more than once, Abbie’s pretty sure the two of them have gleaned all they can. Crane marks passages that could prove useful in the future before stacking them up and adding them to the bookcase that houses all their supernatural resources.

            True to his word, he gets right back to brushing up on history – and taking her along for the ride. He actually thumbs his way through the book Abbie had given him for his birthday and what he finds there doesn’t exactly please him.

            Abbie watches his frown deepen progressively over the course of ten minutes or so of reading. “What’s up, buttercup?”

            Crane wrinkles his nose. “I see I have John and Thomas to thank for the two-party system,” he comments with obvious disdain. It takes Abbie a few seconds to realize he’s talking about Adams and Jefferson. “They were like-minded men, both of similar humor and character. To see the wedge of politics divide such close friends should only serve as a reminder of the cost of being so immovable in your ideals.”

            “At least they made up before they died,” says Abbie. “The real cautionary tale here is Alexander Hamilton. Spoiler alert,” she adds.

            Crane snorts. “His fate came of little surprise. Burr always had more temper than sense and Alexander made a nuisance of himself in several different social circles at the time. I oft cautioned him that his tactlessness would get him run through someday,” he tells her, surprisingly blasé about it.

            “It never stops being surreal, hearing firsthand about the Founders,” she says, shaking her head. “How d’you think they’d feel about their names being invoked to promote a political viewpoint?”

            “Revolted,” he replies, sneering. “General Washington in particular. In truth, however, I fear there are a great many things about this era that would set their teeth on edge. Advanced warfare, for one.”

            “I thought you’d moved on from the nukes.”

            “I had,” he affirms, looking back down at his book. “Then, someone wiser than I suggested that I am too hasty in drawing my conclusions.”

            Abbie gives him a lopsided smile. “Is that right?”

            Glancing at her askance, Crane goes on, “I had thought Valley Forge without compare; the months I spent in that redoubt taught me the meaning of hell on earth.” His eyes are swimming with ghosts. “After, when we were marching to retake Philadelphia, General Washington remarked that it was his hope, regardless of the outcome, that the generations following ours would steer a wiser course and move beyond settling disputes with bloodshed.”

            Abbie thinks, not for the first time, that Washington was a man who was too smart for his era. “We like to imagine we’re more advanced these days,” she intones, “but more knowledge doesn’t always mean more wisdom.”

            Crane shakes his head. “This world is full of wonders none of my time could have ever envisioned. Yet for all the moral and technological strides made over the centuries, humanity is no less warlike. I awoke to an earth that saw a hundred million people die over the meager span of twelve years of open warfare – a world that actively sought the invention of a weapon that could herald in global destruction. And I cannot understand,” he continues fervently, “why so many are unbothered by this, by living in the shadow of such catastrophe.”

            Recalling the sort of haphazard way she’d brushed off his concerns months ago, Abbie feels ashamed of herself now because there’s more to it for him, she realizes. Crane is a scholar first and foremost but he was a soldier long before the apocalypse showed up. Almost his whole life has been dictated by war; it’s shaped his outlook on a lot of things.

            “You judge preemptively now and again but this really isn’t one of those times, Crane,” she tells him with a sad, gentle smile. “It’s not that we’re unbothered. It’s just that we’ve lived with it for so long that you kind of get used to it. Some people think there’s an argument to be made about the benefits, but there’s no denying that the aim of discovering atomic energy was to weaponize it.”

            “How you have cheered me,” he quips. There’s a teasing glint in his eyes.

            “Maybe try changing your perspective?” suggests Abbie. Crane arches an eyebrow. “A hundred million dead over the two world wars. Maybe there’s a reason we haven’t seen a conflict of that scope since.”

            Abbie watches the wheels turn in his mind. “You suggest that nuclear weapons are a _deterrent_ from war.”

            “Mutually assured destruction. Regardless of political ideology or religion or anything else that motivates war, people everywhere generally don’t want to die,” says Abbie. “Most people understand that a third world war would be the very last we’d ever fight.”

            He looks slightly less dismayed now – Abbie’s taking the victory. “A logical, if not morbid and fatalistic line of reasoning.”

            “It’s a morbid and fatalistic kind of town, my friend.”

            Crane grows contemplative. “You said it in jest, but there is merit in your supposition that I ‘start a revolt’, as you put it. Mayhap when we’ve won the day in the apocalypse I shall step into the forum myself. If for no other reason than to clarify the true intent of the forebears.”

            “You’d make a lousy politician Crane,” she tells him with a crooked grin. “You’re too noble. Too honest.”

            “I should think that those would be coveted attributes of public servants,” he mutters. Abbie feels sorry for him, she really does. This time next year, he’s going to be an utter _wreck_. The election cycle is going to chew him up and spit him out.

            “Well there’s what should be, and what _is_. Keep at it,” she advises.

            A few hours after she’s gone home, Abbie’s phone rings. Calvin’s name flashes on the screen and that’s a surprise – she can count on the fingers of one hand how many times he’s called rather than text in the past six months.

            “Hello?”

            “Hey, Abbie.” Two words in but that’s all she needs to determine that something’s off.

            “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

            “The city. My editor called me back in and – something’s come up,” he says.

            “What is it?”

            “I’d rather discuss it face to face. I’m going to be headed up your way tomorrow, could you meet me at the house?”

            “Sure. Sure, Calvin.” He doesn’t sound distressed exactly, but Abbie’s hackles are raised all the same. “You’re okay?”

            “Yeah, it’s just not something we should do over the phone. Tomorrow afternoon?”

            “I’ll come over as soon as I’m off work.”

            The call remains a presence in the back of her mind throughout her day at the station and for a reason she can’t quite explain, she feels nervous knocking on Calvin’s door that afternoon.

            He looks about as apprehensive as she feels when he greets her. Calvin leads them into the living room but neither of them sit down.

            “What’s up?” she asks. “I thought you were supposed to be in Japan until next month.”

            “I was. My editor pulled me out a few days ago. Something rare crossed her desk: an assignment in China. One with the cooperation of their government, which is crazy to think about. She offered it me.”

            “Wow. That’s great. Congratulations, Calvin.”

            “There’s a caveat, though. It’s an extended project.”

            “Ah.” Abbie pauses. “Extended for how long?”

            “Ten months at the minimum. Probably closer to a full year, maybe longer. She wants me there by the first of October.”

            Calvin watches her carefully as she digests that. There’s a brief flair of disappointment, but it fades as quickly as it comes. “A year. Wow,” she says again.

            “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck, then takes a deep breath. “Okay, cards on the table. The gig is good and the story is something I’d love to cover, something I could give due justice to.”

            “But?” she prompts.

            “But it’s not something I _need_ to do. I’ve turned down offers like this in the past.”

            Apprehension creeps into Abbie anew. “What are you saying?”

            “Tell me not to go,” Calvin says, holding her gaze. “Tell me not to go and I won’t.”

            Abbie closes her eyes. “Calvin…”

            “We’re good, Abbie. You _know_ we’re good. If there’s a chance that we could be even better, I’m not going to pass that up.” He takes a step closer. “I didn’t expect to find anything more with this – with you – but it’s there. You feel it too, don’t you?”

            No point in denying it. “There’s just so much you don’t know about me, about my life.”

            “So tell me. Some of it, all of it, I want to know.”

            “It’s not that simple,” Abbie says quietly.

            “Whatever it is, you don’t have to deal with it by yourself. Let me help. I want to help.”

            Abbie hates him a little in that moment for making this so goddamn _hard_. She folds her arms across her chest and puts a few feet of space between them, trying to untangle her thoughts. “I don’t need to know right now,” he says. “Just – tell me you’ll think about it.”

            Abbie agrees, even though she already knows what her answer will be.

 

* * *

 

 

            “Are you well, Lieutenant?” asks Crane.

            “Mmm. Fine.”

            “You have seemed out of sorts these last few days.”

            Abbie glances up at him wryly. “I look that bad, huh?”

            “I did not mean to imply –”

            “I know, Crane,” she replies warmly. “I’m all right, really. I’ve just got a couple things on my mind, that’s all.”

            “Well, should you wish to unburden yourself, my ears are yours.”

            Abbie can’t lie, she’s thought about it. Not with Crane, of course, but with Jenny. A sounding board would be of great help right about now but Abbie knows her sister too well, knows that Jenny would advise her to throw caution to the wind. But there’s a burden of responsibility that comes with that capital W that Jenny, despite being as embroiled in the apocalypse as she is, would never understand. Abbie can’t just put her happiness over her duty as a Witness no matter how much she may want to. And she can’t in good conscience drag Calvin into the chaos of the end of days – he’d almost lost his brother to supernatural forces. If any harm came to him, Abbie would never stop blaming herself.

            _Fucking mess_ she thinks, scrubbing her face with her hands. The last couple of days spent deliberating at Calvin’s request just feel like a blur of prolonging the inevitable. She wishes she would have turned him down the day he asked because now, she’s consumed with thoughts of all the things she wants but can never, ever have.

            “How is it that you don’t have doubts?” Abbie asks. Crane looks momentarily thrown off by the non sequitur, prompting her to continue, “Whenever you talk about the war, you always seem so sure that we’re going to win.”

            “I have faith,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

            “In what, the triumph of good over evil?”

            “In myself and in you, in what we are capable of together. Consider what we have already overcome. Even in the direst of situations, we’ve emerged relatively unscathed.”

            Abbie smiles at him wanly. “But we’re not the only pieces on the chessboard, are we?”

            Crane studies her. “Katrina and my son made their choices, Lieutenant.”

            “So did my mother, and Grace Dixon and Sheriff Corbin. They were on the right side and they didn’t make it. The odds aren’t in our favor, here. It’s going to get harder before it gets easier and a time after when we can put down our weapons and go on to lead normal lives is starting to feel like a fairy tale I’m telling myself to deal.”

            “You _are_ out of sorts,” he observes softly.

            “This whole year has been…” Abbie shakes her head. “I told myself that I wanted to give normal a try. Convinced myself that it was good for me – and maybe it was. For a little while, anyway. But here lately, I feel like all it’s done is remind me of things I’m never gonna be able to have.”

            Crane looks at her with sympathetic eyes. “It took me some time to accept the reality of my situation, of being removed from the life I knew before. It is something I still struggle with on occasion, as you well know.”

            She knows where he’s going with this. “That’s different,” she argues. “I’m not living in a different time.”

            “Does that mean that you have not also lost a part of your life?” he inquires gently. “Your world was thrown from its axis just as mine was with the revelation of our roles in the end of days. You have allowed me to grieve all that I lost, yet you deny yourself permission to do the same. Are we so different in this, you and I?”

            Truth rings out in his words, deeply unsettling. Crane lost his past and Abbie’s lost her future. Whoever she was going to be without the war died the day Corbin did.

            “When I was a kid,” she mumbles, “all I ever wanted was a normal life. A routine, some stability, people who loved me.”

            “One out of three,” Crane murmurs. His eyes are sparkling with affection.

            “I meant it, you know,” she says suddenly, fiercely. “When I said I didn’t regret not going to Quantico.”

            “I know,” he assures her.

            “I meant it,” she repeats, though it isn’t for him. “I’m gonna fight this war, even if we lose. Even if it kills me.”

            “As will I,” he vows. “But until then, I still think it better to make of the interim what you will rather than agonize over what may not be when our war is done,” he adds, rising from the table and gathering up their empty tea mugs. “You have seemed contented thus far. Has anything happened to change that?”

            Abbie swallows a groan. Right back to square one. “Not exactly,” she lies as he sets the tea kettle on the stove.

            “It has proven to be a pleasant enough respite, these many months,” he continues, approaching the table again. “There had been little time for frivolity those last years I spent in my own era, with the revolution. I find that I like having time to spend among friends. I am even looking forward to passing an evening in the company of your Mr. Riggs.”

            Abbie winces. “Yeah, well, we’re gonna need a rain check on those drinks,” she mutters, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “Something came up.”

            There’s a low, derisive sound above her. Abbie picks up her head and looks at Crane; the corners of his mouth are turned down. “The single instance he gives you a firm date for his return, and he reneges.”

            Maybe it’s because he’s doing it _again_ , or maybe it’s the way he doesn’t even bother hiding the contempt in his voice this time, or maybe it’s because Calvin already had her fast approaching the absolute goddamn end of her rope, but something inside of Abbie very definitively _snaps_ and she is shooting to her feet.

            “What is your _problem_ , Crane?”

            Her outburst surprises him and several seconds pass without him reacting at all. Then, Crane’s expression shutters closed. “To what do you refer?”

            “Don’t do that,” she snaps. It’s the one thing about him she dislikes, the way he tries to pretend like she can’t tell when he’s playing dumb. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

            Crane stubbornly remains silent. Abbie stares at him long and hard. “A likeable sort. Somebody who’s earned my respect. Those were your own words.”

            “I am aware, thank you,” he replies in a testy voice, eyes downcast, fingers curling and uncurling at his sides.            

            It ignites anger in her she’s never felt before when disagreeing with him. He doesn’t _get_ to be testy with her about this. “Are you also aware how many times I ran commentary on your marriage?” Abbie fires back before she can stop herself.

            Crane’s face clouds over with a scowl, like she’s the one that’s crossed a line here.

            “How many times?” she presses, because she wants to hear him say it.

            “Never,” he states, voice hollow. “Not once.”

            Oh, but there had been moments when she’d wanted to, when she’d come critically close, been a hair’s breath away from asking him _what the entire fuck_ he’d been thinking and it’s not like she didn’t have just cause. The sheer amount of times Katrina put them in danger and compromised their mission and every time Crane made an attempt to patch things up Abbie had held her tongue. She had helped him get ready for a _date_ , for Christ’s sake.

            “I didn’t,” she says baldly, “because that was your relationship and your choice. I respected that because I respect _you_.”

            Crane’s eyes flash up, wide and incensed. “You – after all that we have been through together, how can you even imply that the sentiment is not mutual? It is precisely _because_ I respect you so that I…”

            He cuts himself off, clenching his jaw shut and she’s getting tired of that too, of all the things he doesn’t say. Abbie sighs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Look. We’re partners Crane, and you’re the best friend I’ve ever had but not every part of my life is yours. _No_ ,” she cuts him off as he opens his mouth, looking indignant. “You cannot keep doing this just because you don’t happen to like the arrangement. The arrangement _I_ chose for myself, one that I’ve told you before I was happy with. So you’re either gonna tell me what your problem is right now or show me the same courtesy I showed you and Katrina and _leave it be_.”

            Silence follows her pronouncement and Abbie’s glad to have a minute to regroup. Fighting with Crane always leaves a bad taste in her mouth. She doesn’t want to have to keep doing this with him about Calvin, about any man she may date in the future. He can’t put her relationships under a microscope and dissect them just because he –

            “Calvin Riggs is a fool,” Crane says abruptly, snapping her back into focus.

            Abbie wants to scream. “ _Crane_ –”

            “He is a fool for not realizing what he has,” he continues, fixing somber eyes on hers and Abbie’s words die in her throat. “If he did, surely he would not disappear for days on end without word. He would take the time and care to court you properly. You are –” Crane stops then, studying her as intently as he ever has any puzzle they’ve had to solve.

             A heavy moment of silence passes between them, thick and _charged_ somehow, making the hair on the back of her neck stand up but she doesn’t dare move. She’s not sure she could, even if she tried. Eventually, Crane’s jaw sets and he lifts his chin, staring her down with eyes that are fierce and defiant.

            “You are _divine_ , Abigail Mills,” he declares. “Any man who does not remind you of that every day is unworthy of your time, let alone your heart.”

            His words suck all the air and sound right out of the room, leaving Abbie breathless and deaf to everything except the loud, hammering thrum of her pulse in her ears. A sickening wave of dizziness consumes her, tilting the room on an angle and forcing her to screw her eyes closed. Reaching blindly for the back of the chair so she can steady herself, Abbie wraps her fingers tightly around the wood and works on getting her breathing under control.

            But she _can’t_ because her brain has kicked into overdrive and memories are flooding her in a great crushing rush, disjointed and overlaid with newfound understanding, a million little things she’d written off or brushed away: Crane’s eyes on a sprig of mistletoe over both their heads, his fingers stretching out to find hers as the door to Purgatory took form, the wild look in his fever bright eyes when she’d summoned him from Moloch’s lair, how he’d raced to catch her in his arms with something that went past mere relief, a blanket draped over her knees and cups of tea made exactly the way she likes before she can even ask –

            “Miss Mills,” she hears him say from some place far away. She’s clenching her eyes shut so hard that starbursts of light are going off behind her eyelids, light that’s bright and sharp like the spark in his eyes whenever she teases him, like the way he sounds when she makes him laugh, the way he smiles when it’s just the two of them and _you haven’t the faintest idea_ –

            “Abbie.” Her eyes shoot open. There’s a war on his face, uncertainty and apprehension and something beyond that, something desperate.

            “How long?” she asks very, very softly.

            “I…” Panic edges into his eyes. “Miss Mills –”

            “ _How long_?” she demands. “The whole time I’ve been with Calvin?”

            Crane is reluctant for a breath. Then he lowers his eyes and in a voice Abbie can barely hear he whispers, “Before.”

            God. _God_. A small noise escapes Abbie’s throat. She twists away from him, burying her fingers in her scalp and grabbing fistfuls of her hair. “Stupid, stupid, I am so goddamn _stupid_.”

            “You are not,” he says, small and wary and nothing like himself. _You are clever and I desire your discourse._

            Anger surges in her, white-hot and irrepressible and she takes a menacing step towards him. She has no idea what she’s going to do but she can’t stay _still_ anymore, not when it feels like she’s coming apart.

            “All this time,” she hisses, low and accusing, and Crane stubbornly refuses to meet her gaze. “All this goddamn _time_ and you waited until I found somebody else, until I was happy –”

            “I am sorry.” The words are raw, so quiet and defeated that it makes her even angrier because Crane doesn’t surrender, he doesn’t just _give up_. “You were not ever meant to know.”

            That sentence shocks her system, freezing her on the spot. It _hurts_ , like broken ribs, stuttering her breath. “So…what? You were never going to tell me? Ever?”

            That finally makes him look her in the face and she instantly wishes he hadn’t; his eyes are red-rimmed and full of despair. “What else was I to do?”

            Abbie realizes that she doesn’t have an answer for him. Her breath begins to rattle in her chest and for one horrifying second she thinks she might actually start to cry. It makes her jerk away from him, turning her back so he won’t see her expression crumble.

            She’s not fast enough. There’s a sweep of cloth behind her and the floorboards creak under the weight of his boots as he surges closer. “ _Miss Mills_ ,” he rasps, ragged and imploring.

            She lifts her hand, holding him off. “Just…” It’s all she can manage with her heart in her throat. Abbie can’t be in the same room with him any longer. “I have to go.”

            He goes ashen, making an abortive motion as though to reach out for her. “Abbie?” he whispers, eyes wide with fear she’s never seen before.

            “I – we’re still –” Friends? Partners? “ _Crane_ ,” she whispers, closing her eyes again, “I need to…think.”

            “I know. I am so –”

            “Don’t,” she cuts him off sharply. “Just – just give me some time.”

            A few beats of silence pass and Abbie can’t look at him, not now, she’ll fall apart if she does.

            “Very well,” he says, words empty and Abbie all but dashes out of the cabin.

 

* * *

 

 

            Abbie’s first instinct is to get blindingly, gracelessly drunk. It’s an instinct she doesn’t heed because she knows it’s leftover from a time in her life when unhealthy decisions controlled her existence.

            She does have _a_ drink, though. Funnily enough, it’s neither Calvin nor Crane that’s on her mind at first – it’s Andy Brooks. Andy with his earnestness and kind nature, his steadfast loyalty and friendship. When Crane had stood in the Mason’s cell and declared that Andy had feelings for her easy as you please, it’d been a punch to the gut because she’d never known, never even suspected.

            A fucking running theme, that. As she’s downing the tequila, the mental image of Andy’s face morphs into Calvin’s. It was less of a surprise with him because there _is_ something there and she’d known it since the day she’d met him. Him asking for more was unexpected, but at least Abbie can clearly identify the hints that led up to it.

            Crane, though…god, _Crane_. If Andy had been a punch to the gut then Crane was a full-on heart attack. A part of Abbie is angry at him for dropping it on her at this very moment, but a bigger part of her is angrier at herself for not seeing it sooner.

            Because here now, as she sits on the couch and tries so very hard not to drink herself into oblivion, Abbie _can_ see it – she can see it all. The thing that sticks out in her mind is how she’d been unable to place the look in his eyes the day she’d told him about Calvin. It’s so obvious now: he had looked _betrayed_.

            What’s scarier than that, though, is remembering how she’d felt so uncomfortable about it without even understanding why. The way she’d not wanted to leave him alone after Katrina, those times that their playful banter seemed to edge into flirting without her even realizing it, how she’d _wanted_ to get a reaction out of him when she’d dressed up on his birthday and how soothed and stroked her ego had been after the fact.

            Son of a bitch.

            “You look like shit,” Jenny says conversationally, plopping down on the couch next to her.

            “Only slightly better than I feel,” Abbie mumbles.

            “Something happened,” hedges Jenny. She twists to look at Abbie full on, eyes growing more grave the longer the silence lasts.

            Eventually, Abbie clasps her hands together. “I learned something about myself,” she mutters, licking her lips. “I am always the last one to the damn party.”

            “What? What do you mean?”

            “Nothing.” Her eyes fall closed. God, she’s exhausted. “I don’t really want to talk about it. Just…sit here with me?”

            “Yeah. Yeah, Abbie,” says Jenny, scooting close enough so that their shoulders brush. “Of course.”

            Eventually Abbie falls asleep like that, with her face pressed into Jenny’s shoulder and Jenny’s fingers carding through her hair like Mama used to do when she was younger.

            Not everything is figured out in the morning, but one thing certainly is.

            After breakfast, Abbie drives over to Calvin’s house. She trains her expression into neutrality when he opens the door and invites her inside, getting the distinct feeling that he’s doing the same.

            He doesn’t bother with small talk. “You’ve made a decision,” he says, and it’s not a question.

            “Yeah.” Abbie covers her forehead with her palm. “Calvin, I…”

            In the end, she doesn’t have to say it. “I’ll book my flight. Don’t apologize,” Calvin says before she can get the words out. “It was good while it lasted.”

            She bows her head. “It was.”

            “Hey,” he says as he walks her back to the door, “stay in contact? Not right away, but…eventually. I’d like it.”

            Abbie nods. That she can do. “Maybe in a few years I’ll have a story for you.”

            He leans down and presses a single kiss to her mouth. For an instant sadness tightens like a vice around her chest, but it’s gone by the time Calvin closes the door behind her.

            Abbie returns home feeling no less burdened, which is only an indication that she made the right call there. She keeps an eye on her cell phone, half-expecting it to ring or buzz with a text but it remains silent throughout the day, and then throughout the next. She’s grateful for it, but there’s a small part of her that’s disappointed.

            And there’s an indication in that, too. It’s not lost on her.

            The more Abbie plays the last year over in her head, the more the notion settles inside of her, becomes less foreign. Gradually, the shock wears off and is replaced with something…else.

            Abbie knows like she knows the sun rises in the east that if she went over to the cabin right now and told Crane to never mention it again, he’d agree without question. There’s some security in knowing it. Trouble is, the thought of actually _doing_ that makes Abbie feel sick. She can say with complete honesty that until two days ago, she had never ever thought of Crane as anything more than a friend. Because of Katrina, because of their work, because he’s a dude from the 18 th century – there had been a myriad of reasons.

            But now, Abbie can’t _stop_ thinking about it. It’s like something inside of her has been unlocked, spurred on by the fact that Crane knows her better than anyone, better than Corbin. Better than _Jenny_. And while that’s terrifying, there’s also a kind of safety in that. Because he already knows about all her skeletons, knows her past, knows her history inside and out. Knows _her_ in a way that no one else ever has.

            Abbie gives herself one more day to get her head right, to be _sure_. The next morning, she wakes up before it’s light out with a belly full of butterflies. She swings by Starbucks before turning down the long and winding road to the cabin.

            The horizon is beginning to purple with the impending dawn when she arrives, and her breath steams before her face in the crisp October air. She treks across an ocean of fallen leaves to climb the porch stairs, considering the front door before passing it to take her place in the chair that has become hers, setting the two coffees on the small table next to her.

            This part of the patio can be seen easily from the kitchen window. She doesn’t watch the clock, instead gazing out at the ducks skimming the pond and sipping at her coffee. Eventually, the doorknob to her left rattles like she knew it would.

            There’s nothing for a moment as he hovers in the doorway. Abbie waits until he’s approaching before she tilts her head up and takes in the sight of him. He’s got the air of somebody trying to cross a frozen lake, weighing every step like it could be his last.

            “Sit,” she tells him, because he looks like he’s about to fall down.

            Crane does, rigidly. “I did not expect to see you.”

            _Again_ and _ever_ are unspoken but Abbie hears them all the same, making her eyes prickle.

            “I wanted to watch the sun rise.” She nudges the second coffee towards him, which he takes after a moment’s hesitation. “Just so happens that this place has the best view.”

            They sit quietly for a few minutes, mostly because she wants to give him a chance to relax. After the tightness in his eyes fades, Abbie adjusts herself in the chair, twisting to face him full on and tucking her legs underneath her.

            “So. You’ve turned the whole world upside down on me, yet again.”

            “Lieutenant.” He lowers his eyes. “Abbie.”

            “I have to say, you’ve got a knack for it,” she continues mildly. “Even after two years, I never know quite what to expect with you.”

            “Was it such a revelation?” he asks, voice soft.

            “I’ve got a blind spot where you’re concerned. I didn’t react well,” she admits. “Too many upheavals in my life have forever screwed up how I handle big surprises. At least initially.”

            Crane looks guilty anyway, eyes trained on his coffee. “It was never my intention that you find out.”

            God, hearing it a second time hurts all over again – only now, she knows why. An old image of the two of them clad in black sitting at a bar crosses her mind and though she doesn’t have his eidetic memory, she remembers those words.

            “How can a union between two people survive without honesty?” That finally gets him to look up, eyes unreadable. She waits a beat before going on, “We don’t do secrets, me and you. I’d rather everything be out in the open.”

            “I had no wish to complicate things, not after you had found happiness.”

            Abbie looks back out at the pond. A breeze swirls through the stalks of grass, unsettling the crop of leaves and brushing wisps of hair against her face. It’s amazing how she could feel so _calm_ in this moment, now that it’s come.

            “Doesn’t matter anyway,” says Abbie. “Calvin’s going to Beijing. For a year.”

            The heaviness of his gaze is a palpable thing and even though she isn’t looking at him, it feels like he can see right through her. Abbie doesn’t think a full minute has passed but the silence seems endless, makes her want to hold her breath.

            “Ah,” is the first thing he says, tentative. “I know you were fond of him. You’ve my apologies.”

            Abbie takes in the careful expression on his face. “Do I?” she asks.

            Crane goes still. Abbie smiles, warm and inviting, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. His gaze flickers down to follow the motion and when he looks up again, the naked hope in his eyes steals her breath away.

            “No,” he says softly. “No, not at all.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “Feel like going to the city for Christmas?” asks Jenny. “Frank and Cynthia invited the three of us down to spend it with them and Macy.”

            “Sure,” Abbie says.

            “Crane hasn’t been there yet, has he? We’re _so_ going and I’m dragging him through Times Square.”

            “Sounds good.”

            There’s a beat of silence before Jenny goes on. “I also ran into Moloch on the way over here. We exchanged Christmas cards. He says he misses you.”

            “Fun.”

            “ _Abbie_.”

            Abbie jolts into full awareness, eyes shooting up. Jenny is staring at her. “What’s that? What’d you say?”

            Jenny leans forward, bracing her elbows on the table. “Something’s going on with you.”

            “Nothing’s going on with me.”

            “You’ve been stirring your soup for the last eight minutes.” Abbie looks down and lets go of the spoon. “What is going on?”

            “Nothing,” Abbie says again, fighting the urge to fidget under her sister’s scrutiny. “I’m just tired.”

            “You’re _distracted_.”

            “Nothing’s up, Jen. Really.”

            Her sister squints at her. “Whatever it is, I’m gonna figure it out.”

            And it’s a testament to just how distracted Abbie is that she mutters, “Maybe, maybe not.”

            “So there _is_ something. _Abbie_ ,” Jenny groans, like she’s five years old again begging for Abbie to play with her.

            Abbie only smiles, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a twenty. “Lunch is on me. Duty calls.”

            “You know I’m never letting this go, right?” Jenny calls after her.

            “I know,” replies Abbie, tossing Jenny a glance over her shoulder before she steps out of the diner and into the ruthless December chill.

            Crane’s got the fire blazing in the hearth when Abbie arrives at the cabin after her shift is over, thank god, and she tosses her coat over the chair and toes off her boots, leaving them in a heap by the door. She finds Crane in the living room, engrossed in reading. He looks up when she comes in, eyes crinkling at the corners.

            “Hi,” she says, unable to suppress her smile.

            “Hello.” He watches her with glowing eyes as she joins him on the couch, tucking her legs underneath her. “I trust your day was pleasant?”

            “It is now,” she says, just because she wants to see what he’ll do. Crane looks back down at his book, but he’s smiling and then, so is she. Abbie considers telling him about Jenny thinking something’s up but ultimately decides against it because his ego doesn’t need any further boost. “Frank invited us to spend Christmas with his family.”

            “Did he now?”

            “New York City’s gonna be a sensory overload for you but it’s magical this time of year. Feel like a little vacation?”

            There’s such sincerity in his eyes as he murmurs, “As long as I am with you, the location hardly matters,” and yeah, Abbie’s _distracted_ all right.

            It’s so strange because on the surface, not much has changed. They have what they’ve always had. But at the same time, everything is different.

            Crane’s never been particularly handsy with her – some lingering sense of decorum from centuries past no doubt, but Abbie didn’t realize just how much they touched until it stops altogether. There is no more casual contact, no more shoulders rubbing or hands on her wrist or knees brushing under desks, not since that dawn in October. Crane is very careful to keep distance between them at all times and while Abbie is acutely aware of the lack of contact, it doesn’t feel like a loss. In fact, it makes everything _intense_ , somehow. And it doesn’t matter anyway; Crane’s never needed anything more than his eyes to make Abbie feel like she’s going to pieces.

            It’s also not something they talk about, this transition into _more_. Some irrational, adolescent part of Abbie feels like conversation might break the magic that’s settled around this, around them.

            But that doesn’t matter either, because they’ve never really needed words to communicate.

            A couple of afternoons later, Abbie wanders into the archives on her lunch break for no good reason other than that it’s been five or six hours since she’d last spoken to him and that’d suddenly become an unacceptable thing in her mind. Unfortunately the Crane in question is nowhere to be seen, and Abbie trudges further inside feeling more dejected than she has any right to when something catches her eye.

            There, on her side of their desk, is a single red rose.

            Abbie digs her phone out of her pocket. _Dinner tonight_ , she types. _I’m cooking. My place,_ she clarifies since Jenny’s out of town for the weekend.

            “A surprise indeed,” Crane says when he arrives. “You despise cooking.”

            She does. Deeply. “Where’d you get off to earlier?” she asks as he follows her to the kitchen where she’s left the lasagna baking.

            “I spent the afternoon at the library.”

            As they pass her dining room table, Crane stops and Abbie does too, watching his eyes find the vase sitting dead center. The sight of the rose seems to almost embarrass him now. His fingers flutter at his sides when Abbie twists to face him.

            “I missed you,” she murmurs, clasping her hands behind her back and moving closer.

            A hint of pink blooms over his cheeks. God, he’s adorable. “Did you?”

            “Mmhmm.” Abbie stops when she’s toe to toe with him. “Something awful.”

            Crane stares down at her, eyes wide and anticipatory. She lifts herself up on her toes and places a kiss to his cheek, lingering a bit longer than she strictly has to. His hands fly out to cup her elbows as she drops her feet again, but it’s not _her_ he’s steadying.

            Abbie’s by no means in this alone. Crane’s got a different way of doing it, but it’s just as effective.

            He hums after his first forkful of the lasagna, the sound more delicious than anything Abbie’s eaten all day. “Good?” she asks.

            “It is _superb_.”

            She smiles, passing him a glass of cabernet. “Take another bite, then try it with the wine.”

            Crane does as he’s told and if it was delicious the first time, the sound he makes now as he lowers the glass is borderline pornographic.

            “Tell me I’m incredible,” Abbie croons, stupidly pleased with herself.

            “You’re incredible,” he rumbles and the _look_ in his eyes has Abbie’s stomach flipping over. She jerks her eyes away too quickly – smooth, Mills, real smooth – and tries to laugh it off, but Crane spends the rest of the meal looking like a cat that’d caught himself a canary. Abbie doesn’t mind.

            She’s not sure if it’s the wine or maybe that he feels emboldened because she started it, but Crane hesitates at the door. He’s taken to bowing whenever they say goodbye these days – which is ridiculous, ridiculous and unnecessary and _wonderful_ – but tonight, he reaches for her hand, enveloping it with his larger one.

            Crane may as well have grabbed her heart in her chest for all that it stutters Abbie’s breathing. She watches as he lifts it to his mouth and places a kiss on the back of it, expecting him to let go after, but he doesn’t. Instead, he turns her hand over in his and presses his mouth against the flesh of her palm, eyes falling closed almost reverently and Abbie barely bites back the sound that rises in her throat.

            Crane gives her an actual _smirk_ when he releases her hand and bids her goodnight, and fuck, that’s where the real danger is here. Abbie likes him flustered and pink and bashful in his way, but she _loves_ those moments when he’s totally sure of himself, in control and confident. _Cocky_ , even.

 _This is how teenagers feel_ , she thinks as she closes the door and leans against it. If she’d had a remotely normal upbringing with the usual rites of passage, maybe it wouldn’t feel so overwhelming now. Abbie’s not complaining, though – it’s exciting. It’s fun.

            Trouble is, as time’s going on, it’s starting to become something _else_.

            Even though they’re going away for Christmas, Abbie convinces Crane to decorate the cabin, insisting that gaudy holiday displays are an integral part of American life. They don’t do a whole lot, just set up a tree and drape some strings of garland across the hearth’s mantle – along with the stocking Abbie had gotten him their first Christmas together – but it makes the cabin even more inviting. Crane hangs ornaments and listens to the carols Abbie’s got playing on her laptop with a smile on his face.

            After, Abbie curls up on the couch and asks him to read to her, which has become her new favorite way to spend an evening. She gets lost in the smooth baritone of his voice, staring into the fire and thinking that nothing in her life has ever felt so close to heaven.

            “This Scrooge fellow is utterly loathsome,” Crane observes after a while, turning a page.

            “Not the nicest guy, no.”

            He shoots her a sideways look. “Do not think I have forgotten how you compared us, once.” Abbie blinks, because _she’s_ forgotten. “Whilst we were in pursuit of Jeremy’s golem.”

            “Oh, right.” Abbie smiles apologetically. “Scrooge is a son of a bitch for no reason. You had a pretty decent excuse for being miserable that Christmas.”

            “It seems we all have our chains,” Crane surmises, glancing back down at the book and Abbie scoots closer to him because she can’t _not_ touch him now, not when he looks so sad.

            “Hey,” she murmurs, taking his hand. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

            Crane surprises her by not only accepting the touch, but weaving their fingers together. “I _was_ miserable,” he admits in a small voice. “I was in such pain for so long. Yet I would endure it again,” he continues, stronger, “I would endure it again in tenfold and suffer gladly, for all of it brought me here, to this moment.”

            And that’s – _Jesus_ , that’s… “Crane,” she whispers, heart swelling in her chest. He squeezes her hand. “No more sad holidays,” Abbie vows. Not for either of them. “You aren’t alone anymore.”

            Crane gazes at her for a long moment, Abbie combating the urge to look away because it’s _too much_ sometimes, being the sole focus of his attention.

            “I am not certain I ever truly was,” he says in a soft voice and Abbie is suddenly hyperaware how close they are, how much of her body is in contact with his – this is the most they’ve touched since this began. Crane’s aware of it too, blue eyes darkening the longer they take in her face and Abbie tilts her head up just the slightest bit and for a second she’s sure, she’s _sure_ –

            “Shall I continue reading?” he asks, breathless, and the moment between them evaporates.

            It’s honestly the single worst argument to stave off the possibility of good necking that Abbie’s ever heard in her _life_ , but she lets him have it and brushes away the minute sense of insult. _It’s different_ , she thinks and that’s become something of a mantra here recently. Because of course dating is different for him, there’s no getting around that – and even if Crane wasn’t two and a half centuries old, it wasn’t all that long ago that he was mourning his wife.

            His wife that betrayed him. That he seems pretty much totally over. A wife he never slept under the same roof with even before she’d wanted to kill him.

            Stop.

            Regardless, _it’s different_ and Abbie’s trying to respect that and let him go at his own pace. In fact, she’s been doing a pretty good job respecting that for almost three months. Ninety full calendar days.

 _Stop_.

            A part of her almost wants to break the news to Jenny just so she can have an ear to rant in. But Abbie doesn’t, because it’s still all too new and too fragile, and it’s _theirs_.

            Well, that and Jenny isn’t exactly known for her chill.

            It’s not like there’s no progress being made; Abbie can feel them drawing closer. Crane’s looks have a tendency to linger now, more unabashed and heated by the day and Abbie gives it right back to him, keeps her face open so that there’s no mistaking how much more she wants from this, from him. She gets a sense that he’s struggling internally – he always hesitates before they end their nights now, doesn’t even bother curbing his gaze anymore and no matter how much room he leaves between them on the couch for propriety’s sake, they always seem to end up closer, pulled into each other’s orbits.

            And yeah, Abbie’s got a lot of patience. But it’s not endless.

            Eleven days before Christmas, a blizzard is forecasted to hit Tarrytown and the surrounding areas. She and Crane get in a few rounds of sparring outside on the frozen lawn before the bite in the air becomes too bitter and they have to retreat inside and put the swords away.

            While Abbie’s brewing tea, Crane joins her in the kitchen, draping a blanket over her shoulders. Murmuring her thanks and passing him a mug, she turns her attention to the window, watching the wind blow through the tree line.

            “That storm’s gonna be fierce,” she comments, wrapping the blanket tighter around her shoulders. It smells like him: wood smoke and books and peppermint tea.

            Crane hums. “The roads will be treacherous to travel until it passes.” The blizzard isn’t due to hit for another ten hours. Abbie sips her tea and doesn’t say a fucking word. “I would rest easier in my mind,” he goes on, “if you remained here tonight.”

            “All right,” she agrees, fireworks shooting off in her head.

            They make it to nine PM. Abbie feels like she deserves a goddamn medal.

            Restless, Crane rises from the couch to make some more tea and Abbie follows him, leaving the blanket in a heap against the arm of the sofa. Crane empties out the kettle, filling it with fresh water. Abbie hoists herself up to sit on the counter, watching him as he putters around.

            He spares her a short glance as he sets the kettle on the range. She’s as tall as him sitting up here, and she knows _he_ knows she’s watching him. He busies himself with the tea and the mugs but there’s only so long he can pretend to be doing something. Abbie’s eyes are still there waiting when his dart in her direction again.

            “Are you hungry?” he asks and it takes every inch of willpower she possesses not to laugh in his face.

            Still, the grin spreading her mouth feels feral. “Very.”

            “I think delivery unlikely, given the weather,” he continues, oblivious, “but I could prepare something.” That gives him something else to do – a tactical error on her part. Damn. She spends another minute or so just observing as he opens cabinets, pulling out this and that, muttering something about meals prepared over campfire during the revolution and he is _precious_ but that’s pretty much all she wrote. Abbie’s hit the limit. What is left of her patience goes up in smoke.

            She reaches out, catching the lapel of his stupid coat in her hand. Crane freezes, releasing a short puff of air and whatever he had been saying dies a quick death.

            “Crane.” It’s a low sound in her throat. He comes willingly when Abbie pulls him up to the counter by his coat. She’s got to spread her knees to get him as close as she wants and he hesitates at that, turning his eyes down and making a wordless noise of half-hearted protest and Abbie leans down some, trying to catch his gaze. Splaying her hand open to press against his chest, she’s able to coax his eyes up to lock on hers and _then_ she’s got him. After that it’s nothing to pull him those last few inches; he goes easily, transfixed.

            Crane’s gaze flits across her face and Abbie lets him look, watching as his eyes noticeably pause on her mouth before finding her own again. Abbie holds herself very still as he slowly raises a hand, ghosting it over her cheek. It hovers there above her skin, like a question.

            Abbie covers his hand with her own. Turning it over, she runs her thumb along the scar bisecting his palm; the dagger meant for a wendigo had cut the ragged gash with no hesitation, blade still wet with her own blood. Looking up again to make sure he’s watching – and he _is_ , unblinking, lips parted, holding his breath – Abbie presses her lips to the scar.

            Crane’s eyes flutter closed. His head spills forward until their brows are pressed together, and Abbie lets out the breath she had been holding in the small space between. Long fingers card through the locks of hair draped over her shoulder and _this is it_ , Abbie thinks, heart thundering in her chest, breath picking up.

            And he’s breathing faster too, chest rising and falling against the back of her knuckles, puffs of air ghosting over her mouth. They are so close now that Abbie’s nose is smudging into his and she can feel the brush of his beard against her skin and she is ready, more than ready and when he takes a deep, steadying breath all she can think is that it shouldn’t feel like this, _how_ does it feel so intense when they’re barely touching, when they haven’t even _done_ anything?

            “The day has been long,” he whispers, and Abbie’s mind completely blue screens out.

            The _fuck_. “What,” she says – a demand, not a question.

            But he slides his hand from under hers and takes a very decisive step back. Cold air swoops into the empty space he had occupied seconds before. Abbie goes numb, watching him back up.

            “Crane.” She isn’t sure what else to say, but she has to say _something_.

            But he doesn’t even look at her, long hair hiding his face as he turns away. “I shall see you in the morning, Lieutenant.” A brisk, definitive denial.

            Abbie doesn’t release the breath she’s holding until she hears his bedroom door close.

 

* * *

 

 

            She thinks about driving home, fuck a blizzard. Then she thinks about storming into his room, waking him up and cussing him out.

            In the end, an hour later finds her still sitting on the couch staring at the fire. Making an attempt to sleep would be a fucking joke when every inch of her is crawling with unspent energy. She’s frustrated and confused and somehow _still fucking turned on_ but underneath all of that is a deep sense of unease.

            She pushed too hard. They’re going to have to talk about it, she realizes anxiously. Maybe they should’ve from the very beginning. She’d been fooling herself, thinking they could coast along without addressing certain things.

            Abbie’s composing the speech she’s gonna give him in the morning when a sound reaches her ears: down the hall, a door creaks open. She goes still, ears straining and picking up on the steady groan of the floorboards.

            She’s on her feet before he even appears in the doorway, dressed in his sleep clothes.

            “What’s wrong?” Abbie demands.

            Crane hovers there for a few more seconds before stepping fully into the room. “Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

            Abbie looks at Crane – really looks at him and in a sudden rush, she _gets_ it. Her heart is racing and she swallows as he takes one more cautious step into the room. Towards her.

            “Oh,” she says, the word is almost lost to the roaring in her ears.

            She waits. It is the hardest thing she’s ever had to do in her life; every second that ticks by is agony. Abbie has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep herself from speaking because a thousand things are right there on her lips, things like please, please, _please_ come here, please come to me.

            And finally, Crane moves. It’s small, just a squaring of his shoulders and a determined setting of his jaw but in that moment, Abbie knows he’s made his choice.

            But it still isn’t enough to keep her from gasping when he crosses the room in three great strides, gathers her into his arms and presses his lips to hers.

            It’s a chaste, closed-mouth, simple thing that he doesn’t attempt to deepen but it punches all the air out of her lungs anyway because it’s _him_ and she can’t think, can’t move, can’t even inhale because it’s so _good_ and then abruptly Crane’s hands are sliding away and he’s leaning back and no no _no_ , this is the exact opposite of what she wants _again._ Abbie forces her eyes open to find his contrite ones and oh god, of _course_ he misinterpreted her stillness.

            Crane opens his mouth – presumably to apologize, but he doesn’t get that far. Reaching a hand up to cradle the back of his neck, Abbie surges up on her tiptoes and drags him down. His noise of surprise gets caught between their mouths, then smothered into nonexistence as she slides her lips over his.

            He is so gentle, sweet and careful and maybe the slightest bit unsure and Abbie _loves_ it, loves having to coax him into boldness with little flicks of her tongue and teasing hints of her teeth. She can feel his restraint wear thin and she hums in triumphant delight when it snaps and he tugs her closer and makes a _sound_ when she finally slips her tongue into his mouth, a sound that scuttles down Abbie’s spine and burrows itself into her gut, setting her insides ablaze with sudden, searing want.

            It jolts her back into something like half-awareness and she’s the one that breaks the kiss this time even though it kills her because _they have to talk about this_ , she’d decided that at some point, hadn’t she? Abbie’s head tips forward onto his chest as she steadies herself and Crane lets out a breath, sounding just as affected as she is. She can feel his heart beating near the edge of her cheek and can’t resist sliding her hand over the rapid-fire _thump-thump_ of it beneath the linen shirt. When her touches skate up towards the length of his neck, Crane catches her hand and presses it back against his heart, curling his fingers around hers, holding it there and Abbie very nearly forgets how to breathe.

            “I…” Fuck, is that _her_ voice? “I thought you went to sleep.”

            “I could not sleep,” he breathes, wondering. “I couldn’t. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw you.”

            Abbie clears her throat. “Crane –”

            “Ichabod,” he rumbles in a tone that is pure _sin_ , lips brushing against her left temple.

            “ _Crane_ ,” she says again a bit stronger, staring up at him. “Are you sure?”

            There’s a few seconds when he doesn’t respond, just searches her face with dark eyes. “Remarkable,” he murmurs.

            “Huh…” Abbie clears her throat again and _words_ , Mills, goddamn. “What is?”

            “You,” he says, thumbing the line of her collarbone. “Remarkable that after all this time you can remain so unaware of just how deeply _necessary_ you are to me.”

            She lets out a puff of air that would’ve been a laugh had her lungs been working properly. “This is what you want?” she asks, because he hesitated before, because she has to be _sure_.

            He turns his head, pressing his mouth against her temple again. “Want is an entirely inadequate word.”

            “Is it?” Abbie’s too hypnotized by the feel of his beard as he dots her forehead with kiss after kiss to try for words with multiple syllables.

            Long fingers curl over her shoulders and slide up her neck as he leans down. “ _Entirely_ ,” he breathes into her ear and her clothes might just burn off, she’s so hot underneath them. “A better question to ask is how I have managed to survive for so long denied of the thing I crave.”

            “You don’t get to be this articulate right now,” mutters Abbie, biting back a sound when he drops his hands to her waist. “It’s not fair.”

            “Fair,” he scoffs. “Who talks of fairness? You, who would flaunt your beauty and cleverness carelessly before me as if I could resist. You, who walked freely day to day blind to the longing you engendered in me, giving no notice or sign of hope that I might have you one day. You, who forced me to endure watching _another man_ ,” he says in a low voice, fingers digging deliciously into her hips like he wants to pull her closer, “dither about you and care for you with only half of his heart when you have stolen mine and made it entirely yours, whole and beating only for you, even as you ventured further from me. And _that_ was not even enough for you – not content to merely own me, body and soul, you insisted on drawing the very breath from my lungs whenever we parted as though daring me to try to live without you. You know nothing of _fairness_ , Grace Abigail Mills.”

            Abbie isn’t sure what to call the sound she makes just then. Luckily Crane’s arms fly up in time to steady her when she goes honest-to-god weak in the knees. “Sorry?” Abbie offers once she’s regained her balance even though she is the absolute farthest fucking thing from sorry, actual light years away. It’s taking concerted effort to keep the giddiness out of her voice.

            “I do not believe you.”

            “Don’t care.” He’s so tall, even on her tiptoes it’s a reach but she doesn’t want to stop kissing him, not even to breathe, she wants to bask in it and soak up every detail: the prickle of his beard and those lovely little sounds and his hands on the span of her back, pulling her _up_ – she forgets how strong he is despite his thin frame. Abbie does not like to be carried at all _ever_ but she’s giving serious thought to climbing up and wrapping her legs around his waist, daring him to say a goddamn word about it.

            Then, it comes to her: a _bed_. That’s it. Glorious in all its brilliant simplicity.

            Before she even realizes she’s doing it Abbie’s got her hands on his shoulders and her feet moving, nudging him backwards. At first he doesn’t seem to notice it and she takes full advantage, sliding her tongue along his bottom lip in a way that’s teasing and tricky and makes him growl which makes her _groan_ and sadly, that gets his attention.

            He pulls back just enough to gasp out, “Abbie.”

            Abbie smiles against his mouth. “That’s my name. You should say it again.”

            “I am well aware –” She interrupts him with another long, lush kiss and he mumbles, “Oh, you are quite good at that,” after she pulls away. Then he flushes like he hadn’t been expecting to say it, stammering when Abbie laughs.

            “I’m good at lots of things.” Abbie twists her fingers, slipping them underneath his shirt, which somehow manages to simultaneously hide nothing and still conceal way too much for her liking. He hisses in a sharp breath when she makes contact with his skin. His stomach muscles jump and tighten under her hands and she tilts her head up, finding his lips again. “Like shooting.”

            “ _Abbie_.” Her name tumbles into her mouth in the middle of another kiss and his hands find hers, clutching at them but not pulling away, and that’s got to be the best sound in the world: her name in the rich timbre of his voice gone low and husky. There will be more of that. “You mean to…you want –”

            “Oh I want,” she agrees. More elaborate drawn out things could wait until later – and there’s definitely going to be a later, Abbie is going to absolutely take him _apart_ for his little speech about fairness. This minute, though, she is too on edge. She wants hot and fast and _now_.

            But there is resistance in his hands as they close around her wrists, not at all playful. “Miss Mills.”

            Abbie goes rigid. A wild thought bolts through her mind that this cannot possibly be happening, not twice in the same goddamn night; her luck _cannot be_ that bad. “Crane. What –?”

            “You – I…” Abbie lets go of his hands. “Oh, dear.”

            Not quite how she’d word it. Dropping her chin to her chest, Abbie puts a couple feet of distance between them. “Is,” she starts before pausing to clear her throat, eyes screwing closed. “Crane, tell me this is not some propriety thing.”

            “Not precisely.” His voice is uneasy. “I am aware attitudes in this area have loosened over the years, I…when I came to you a few moments ago, I assure you that it was not my aim that it lead to –”

            “Never would’ve crossed my mind,” Abbie interjects fondly, because he’s floundering and turning pink. “You’re a gentleman.”

            “That is debatable at present,” he mutters and a grin splits Abbie’s face as she laughs. It takes her a moment to school her expression.

            “What is it?” she asks him, then adding, “Is this too fast?” even though it feels like lunacy to say it because they’ve been taking things _slow_ , so slow it’s wrung her thin and almost sapped her sanity. Maybe it wasn’t official in whatever way the 18th century required it to be but the past few months was sure as hell some kind of courtship.

            Crane snorts. “It is,” he says, eyes lowering ruefully. “You’ve no idea how fast, I suspect. I have come to terms with that.”

            “Then what is it?”

            Her heartbeat sounds so loud in the ensuing silence. “I am aware,” he states at length, oddly grave, “that you are a woman who is accustomed to a certain degree of independence from your paramours. You place significant value on your space and privacy. I respect that.”

            All Abbie can hear is everything he’s not saying. “Crane,” she says, brows furrowing, “tell me.”

            “This is not something that I do casually.” There’s a nervous edge to his voice that Abbie doesn’t understand. “I would not pursue this in such a fashion.”

            “I know that.”

            “It is simply that unions such as these were expected to have a certain…longevity, in my time,” he continues, fingers flexing. For all her domineering presence at a snazzy five-foot-one, Crane is the one who seems small to her now, expression a wonderfully enticing mix of reluctant and already gone. Then it suddenly hits her like a ton of bricks.

            “You’re worried I’m not serious about this.” She can’t keep the incredulity out of her voice because he’s crazy, he is in-fucking- _sane_. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

            Crane doesn’t respond right away, answering the question all the same. He really doesn’t get it. Ichabod Crane, who is easily the smartest person in any room, the depth of whose perception drives Abbie up the goddamn wall, who always looks at Abbie like he could split her open and make her spill her secrets with the strength of his eyes alone.

            Eventually Crane murmurs, “It seems I too have a blind spot where you’re concerned.” Though the words are tinged with humor, his eyes are still unsure, so unsure.

            “Crane,” she admonishes gently, smiling and shaking her head. “What’d you think, huh? That I’d leave you on the doorstep and flounce off to my next conquest?”

            His expression becomes strained. “On my _own_ doorstep?”

            “ _Ichabod_.” She is grinning and exasperated and utterly, utterly in love. Abbie kisses him, slow and tender like he’d done the first time, leaning back only when she feels like some of the uncertainty has eased. “I am very serious about this.”

            It gives him some courage. “I mean for this to last. If you – if you are not – ”

            “I love you.” Crane’s eyes flash up, round and impossibly blue. It twists Abbie up inside that he still doesn’t look like he can quite believe it. “I won’t remember to say it enough and I’m never gonna be able turn a phrase like you but –”

            One large hand cups her cheek, cool against her fiery skin. “Say it again,” he murmurs, low and desperate. A plea she can’t refuse.

            “I love you.” Abbie’s toes curl at how his eyes go just a bit more glazed and then she can’t stop saying it. “I love you, I love you, I –”

            Both of his hands come up to frame her face. “You must be certain, Abbie. If you…I could not –” He closes his eyes. “Please be certain.”

            “You sure as hell better be, too,” she tells him in a shaky voice, because she’s not quite sure he gets it, what it means for Abbie to be all in. He isn’t the only one whose heart was stolen.

            Crane leans down and touches her lips with his, light and simple, like a promise and the future she’d lamented losing suddenly feels so much less impossible.

            Abbie cups his cheek, scratching her fingers over his beard. “Was that all that was stopping you this whole time?”

            “I thought…” He turns his face into her hand, letting out a puff of air. “I am not sure _what_ I thought.”

            That makes two of them, then. “Crane,” she says before murmuring, “Ichabod.” His name comes out raw and needy.

            He shudders, closing his eyes. “Yes,” he says finally, nodding. “Anything you want. Yes.”

            Abbie feels so light, like she could float away on the slightest breeze. “C’mon, then. You’re hurting my neck here.”

            This time when she takes his hand and pulls, there is no hesitation at all.

 

* * *

 

 

            It’s not so many paces separating the living room from Crane’s bedroom, but it’s enough of a length of time that Abbie cools off a little, enough to register that as hot and ready as she is, she’s also anxious in a way she hasn’t been since losing her virginity.

            Crane’s bedroom is dimly lit by a handful of candles set up strategically; even after two years, he still prefers candlelight to electric bulbs. It makes Abbie want to giggle because _candles_ and a cabin in the woods with snow falling outside – Danielle Steele, Nicholas Sparks and all the bargain bin Harlequin romances have got _nothing_ on this – but she doesn’t think Crane would appreciate peals of laughter right now.

            Abbie stops when they’re next to the bed, knowing that if she’s anxious, Crane’s got to be a wreck. She rubs her hands up and down his sides, aiming for soothing rather than seductive, peering up at him. “You’re shaking. Are you nervous?”

            “Are you not?” he breathes.

            “Oh, I’m terrified.”

            He huffs out a laugh. “That is more a comfort than you may realize.” Abbie backs him up a bit more until his knees hit the back of the bed. He sits without removing his hands from where they are anchored at her waist and Abbie takes that as a good sign.

            Running her hands along the span of his shoulders, Abbie takes a steadying breath. “I have to ask. Did you…did you ever –?”

            “Not since before my resurrection,” he confesses, closing his eyes and even though she suspected, hearing him actually say it is like pouring gasoline on a wildfire; heat explodes in Abbie’s belly, spreading all over her body and making even her fingers tingle. God, poor thing, he must be _dying_.

            “I,” she purrs, pressing their foreheads together, “am gonna be so good to you, gonna make this so good for you, you won’t even be able to _think_.”

            “Christ,” he mutters, fingers clenching down reflexively on her hips. “Abbie, you mustn’t…you cannot _say_ such things –”

            “But I mean them,” she coos. “Every word.”

            Crane pulls and Abbie comes easily, settling in his lap with her knees pressed to the bed on either side of his thighs. For a moment all she can do is take it in – the solidity of him under her legs, the way he can’t seem to decide where to put his hands as they skate up her hips, over the top of her thighs and then around her back, the overwhelming _rightness_ of it all. This is how she’ll take him later, she thinks, with her on top and him at the mercy of the sinuous writhe of her hips, face to face so that she can watch him, so that she can see everything she does to him.

            But that’s later. Now she wants him to relax, wants to draw out that part of him that she doesn’t get to see enough, wants him sure of himself and guiding the pace as he likes it. So Abbie gazes down at him, half-lidded and licks her lips, trilling happily when he surges up and kisses her before she can even finish the motion.

            Abbie gets lost in the slide of their tongues, in the taste and smell and feel of him beneath her, dragging her fingers through his hair, trying like hell not to squirm in his lap when his hands finally settle in the small of her back because she really does want to take this slowly. It’s hard, so hard when he’s kissing her like he wants to consume her and making low noises in the back of his throat, whispering her name with wonder every time they pause to take a couple of breaths. He sounds so goddamn _happy_ and Abbie wants to laugh and cry and never stop kissing him.

            Then, his fingers find the strip of skin on her back that’s been bared by her shirt riding up. It’s a tentative, simple touch but Abbie feels it all over, shivering and pressing against him.

            And then it’s impossible to be slow and careful anymore. Their kisses edge from sweet into plundering, frantic, _needy_ and she’s pulled flush against him, body molding easily into his like a key into a lock. His hands are hot on her back, bolder and bolder as the seconds pass and Abbie’s fingers find the edge of his shirt like they had back in the living room, only this time he doesn’t stop and catch her wrists. She tries to keep her touch light but that’s over when he moans and her thighs tighten where they’re bracketing his, locking them both together.

            “Off,” he rasps and Abbie doesn’t know if he’s talking about his shirt or hers and who the fuck cares at this point – Abbie’s tugging at the linen like a woman possessed. “My patience is not infinite.”

            “ _Your_ patience,” she chokes out, pushing her forehead against his after they pull his shirt over his head and suddenly there is so much _skin_ under her hands, hot and flushed and perfect. “Don’t you get it, Crane? All you had to do was ask, all you ever had to do was _look_ at me and you could’ve had me, had this, I’m yours –”

            The cool air is a shock on her super-heated skin when her shirt goes but it doesn’t matter, because Crane is right there wrapping her up and this is what it feels like to _burn_ , she thinks blearily, framing his face with her hands.      

            “I didn’t,” he’s groaning blindly even as she’s kissing him, “I did not know –”

            “You’re an idiot,” she replies, trembling as his lips find her neck, setting all her nerve endings alight. “We both are but _you_ , my god Crane, how could you ever think I wouldn’t want this, how could I _not_ want all of this with you?” she demands just as she rocks her hips down.

            He pants out a heavy sound in the hollow of her throat. “Have a care, Abbie,” he warns, shuddering and no, _fuck that_ , she’s spent too much time worried about being careful, they both have, so she does it again, harder this time.

            Crane’s hands tighten around her hips and then suddenly she’s being lifted, hoisted into the air as he twists them around. Abbie’s back hits the mattress and he’s right there, crowding her down and oh, oh, _oh_ , that’s what he meant. He’s hard between her legs and Abbie arches up, rubbing herself against him shamelessly and whimpering, dragging her fingernails down his back.

            “Christ,” he bites out again.

            “‘Fraid not,” she mutters, “just me.”

            His body shakes with a laugh. “You are ridiculous.”

            “ _You_ are.” Abbie clutches him as he leans down, nosing along the strap of her bra and she tries to _think_ through the rush of desire. She’s got the presence of mind to curve up and help him with the latch of the bra because he’s pulling at it impatiently. Abbie slips it off and tosses it away. Crane stares down at her, taking her in and Abbie’s filled with the impulse to squirm under such intense scrutiny.

            “Abbie.” His hand skates unsteadily down the hollow between her breasts, making her shiver. “Beautiful.”

            “Yeah?” she hedges, hot all over.

            “So beautiful.” He looks – god, he looks _wild_ , possessed. “I still cannot believe that I…”

            “Yours,” she says again, mindless and wanton. “All yours.”

            When Crane leans down to trace the path his hand had drawn with his mouth, Abbie gasps, arching and twisting and begging for more. She clutches a handful of his hair when his lips find her left nipple and god, she’s not gonna survive this, she’s going to lose her mind before they even get all their clothes off.

            Comforting is the notion that Crane seems just as far gone as she feels, if not more so: he’s covering her skin with open-mouthed kisses, mapping it with his teeth and tongue and fingers and humming against her ribcage. It takes a couple of seconds for Abbie to realize that he’s not humming at all, he’s mumbling, “Mine,” over and over, pressing the word into her skin.

            Abbie can’t get out of her jeans fast enough. It would be funny if either of them were in their right minds but it’s not, it’s heady and consuming and makes her feel like she did the very first time she got high, all exquisite sensation and buzzing in her head except she’s not relaxed, she’s wound up tighter than a drum.

            Because it hasn’t been ninety days, it’s been two years, two fucking _years_ of this building and growing between them, more and more and _more_ with every step they take together and she wants this so much, has never wanted anything so badly, she wants this more than she wanted to see Moloch dead. Abbie doesn’t even realize that she’s saying it all out loud until he gasps, burying his forehead into her chest to steady himself.

            That goes out the window the second Abbie’s hands delve under the thin fabric of his sleep pants and close around him, hard and silky and so hot against her fingers. He yelps, pushing his hips forward uncontrollably before gasping out her name again.

            “Come on,” she’s saying, biting at his mouth, “come _on_.”

            Crane doesn’t respond, just obliges and kicks off his pajamas and the boxers beneath. Abbie knows for a fact that she’s the picture of health and that he is, too – she’d gotten him a thorough check-up after the Roanoke incident and suffered through a severely uncomfortable conversation about what STD stood for when he asked, so there’s absolutely nothing holding her back when she pulls him down naked against her.

            Crane sucks in a sharp inhale when contact is made because yeah, she’s so wet and ready it’s actually ridiculous. Abbie nods, pulling at his hips and arching towards him but he hesitates here, staring down at her with eyes that are big and dark and wary.

            “Abbie,” he says hoarsely. “You…you are sure –?”

            _I’m in love with a crazy person_ , she thinks. “ _Months_ ago, Ichabod. Come on now, just, just –”

            And he _does_ , pushing inside so slowly that she can feel every single inch of the slide. She moans, digging her fingernails into his arms until he bottoms out and his head falls forward.

            It’s uneven at first, frantic and too shallow so she glides her fingers through his hair and pulls him down for a scorching, messy kiss, licking into his mouth. She follows the motion by rolling her hips up, gently guiding him into a slower, deeper pace that he picks up on almost instantly, matching her rhythm. Abbie hums and pulls off just enough to whisper, “Mmm, feels nice,” against his lips, wrapping her legs around his waist.

            He chokes out a soft, whiny little noise and leans down, braced up on his forearms. His hair falls over his eyes and she smoothes it back because she wants to look at this, she _has_ to. His eyes are screwed closed and his mouth is wet and red, lips parted and Abbie has never seen anything so perfect in her goddamn life.

            Abbie twists her hips, aiming for just the right angle. His next thrust strikes true, sending her arching off the bed and keening in her throat and _fuck_ that’s good, so good that she’s not even gonna need to touch herself if he keeps that up, she’ll go off from just this alone.

           “Abigail,” he gasps. He looks something inside of him has broken and he does it again, and again and _again_ until the world dissolves into a blur of hazy bliss and Abbie is a shuddering mess beneath him. She goads him on, digging her heels into the backs of his thighs, meeting the hitch of his hips with her own, writhing and moaning with every exhale. Crane collapses and his hands find hers, lacing their fingers together so that Abbie’s arms are pressed against the softness of the pillows and there’s nothing in the world except for this, him above her shutting out everything else.

            “Harder,” she begs and Crane, sweet Crane does exactly what she says without question, driving into her, panting into her mouth. He pulls back some, locking his blue eyes on hers and that’s all it takes: Abbie cries out and comes, shaking apart under him and lighting up like the fourth of July.

            He’s still moving against her when Abbie comes down, but all sense of rhythm is gone in favor of frenzy. “Abbie,” he moans, “god in heaven, _Abbie_ –”

            She pulls him down, whispering his name in his ear. Crane buries his face in her neck and she lets him hide this time, stroking his hair and kissing his jaw, his cheek, anything she can reach. Abbie digs her teeth into the lobe of his ear and he goes rigid, sealing his mouth against her throat but it does nothing to muffle the groan of his own release. He shudders all over and she holds him through it, blissed out and _gone_.

            It’s a long time before either of them can catch their breaths. It may be a trick of the candlelight but when Crane finally lifts his head to look down at her, his eyes seem to shine with wetness.

            It shouldn’t be possible for your heart to feel so big and so ready to break all at once. “Hi,” she whispers, stroking his cheek with the backs of her knuckles.

            “Hello,” he murmurs back, and it’s a whole new world.

            She expects sleep to come quick – he hadn’t been lying before when he’d said it’d been a long day – but Abbie doesn’t think she’s ever been more awake than this. She curls up against his side, Crane tugging her as close as he can, and contents herself by pressing her cheek against his chest and listening to his heartbeat.

            “Yours,” he breathes softly, after a time. Abbie twists her head to look at him. His eyes are glowing.

            “Tell me,” she says, searching his face, fiercely curious. “Tell me everything.”

            “Everything?” he repeats, amused.

            “Two hundred ninety-two.”

            “Pardon me?”

            “Remember back in March when you first asked me about the political climate? That’s how many subsequent text messages you spent asking me questions. Two hundred ninety-two.”

            Crane frowns some. “You kept count.”

            “My cell phone bill helped. Point is,” she continues languidly, “I think I’m due a few answers of my own.”

            Crane smiles at her, lazy and generous. “There is no part of me that is not yours to know.”

            Abbie grins wolfishly. Such a good answer. “All you said was ‘before’, when I asked. Tell me when you knew for sure.”

            Crane doesn’t reply immediately, thumbs inscribing patterns on her skin. “I was certain,” he says at length, voice soft, “that I was to die after the Horseman struck me down on the battlefield. I understood the blow was a grave one and that by the time I had been delivered to triage, I was beyond healing. I could do naught but lay there and wait for death to come. The fear I felt then as I lay dying…I have never known anything like it, before or since. Not even when we were bound before Moloch.”

            Abbie shivers and his arms tighten around her. “I really thought that was it. I thought we were dead that night.”

            “So did I,” he says quietly. “And though I was not unafraid, it did not instill the same sort of terror I felt after Abraham swung his axe. Nothing did. I had thought perhaps because I had survived my death once I would never again be affected so deeply.”

            That makes a certain amount of sense, Abbie supposes. Death never stopped being scary, but they’ve had so many close calls that the fear changed over time. Became muted, somehow.

            Crane’s chest rises with a heavy, fortifying inhale. “Then came the bell and that final confrontation. I knew the nature of Katrina’s spell as she cast it. I knew that she meant to alter the course of history. And when you went after her…” A shudder passes over his face, his eyes closing. Abbie waits, kissing along the jagged scar on his chest.

            “I thought I had lost you. It _terrified_ me,” he confesses, voice breaking, “to think that I would never see you again. That my trust and faith in Katrina nearly took you from me, nearly killed you.”

            “Can’t get rid of me that easy,” Abbie quips, pleased when it has the desired effect and he smiles, even weakly. “That was when you knew?”

            “That was my first inkling, yes. In truth, ‘twas after when you remained at my side as I mourned when I was absolutely certain. You were boundlessly kind, though I deserved none of it.”

            “You did,” she argues. He’s always so damn hard on himself.

            Crane brushes a lock of hair out of her face. “You are a rare and marvelous thing, Abigail. You shall always be more than I deserve.”

            She shakes her head, knowing it’s an argument she’s not likely to win. At least, not right now. “Why didn’t you say anything? I had no idea and you never said a word.”

            “I did not think you would return my feelings. Then, when I learned of your relationship with Mr. Riggs, I was certain of it. I resigned myself to be content that you were happy.”

            “You were kinda lousy at that,” she points out with a smirk. 18th century or not, a man is a man is a man.

            “I could not shake from my mind the notion that he was doing you a great disservice, not caring for you the way you so deserved to be.”

            Abbie scoffs. Then she says, “He wanted this, you know. More, with me.”

            Crane’s eyes widen in surprise. “You did not mention it.”

            “Why would I have?”

            “I thought…”

            “Oh I know what you thought. But all you should’ve needed was me telling you that I was happy.”

            He gives her a guilty look. “I suppose I was not entirely rational about the matter.”

            “You _suppose_?” Abbie snorts.

            After a long silence Crane tilts his head. “Mr. Riggs’ departure was triggered by your rebuffing his affections in the end. What made you do so?”

            Abbie balances her chin on his chest, narrowing her eyes at his carefully expressionless face. “You are an absolute egomaniac, you know that?”

            “I did not say –”

            “You didn’t have to.” Abbie grins at him, rolling her eyes. “ _Yes_ , okay, learning how you felt about me influenced the decision some. But honestly? Even if you hadn’t said anything, I’d have told Calvin to go to China. It wouldn’t have worked out in the long run, not with me keeping so many secrets.”

            “You did not think of sharing them?” he asks softly.

            “Once or twice. But bringing him into the fold wouldn’t have been my call to make alone.” Abbie pauses, grinning. “Doesn’t matter, though. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have been anything like this. You get that, right – that you have nothing to be jealous about? Because this is it for me. It’s you.” It scares her a little, how deeply she means it.

            Crane weighs her words for a long minute. “You are aware, then,” he says, softly, carefully, “that relationships such as this formed in my time were meant to be lifelong unions. You know that.”

            Abbie’s stomach flutters. He wouldn’t ask her now, Abbie knows he wouldn’t – he might not ask her ever – but the way he’s _staring_ at her with eyes that are all pupil rimmed by the thinnest strip of hazy blue makes her heart race all the same.

            Abbie tilts her head, smiling down at him slow and warm before she murmurs, “I do.”

            She can _feel_ his heart picking up speed under her hand and she drops a kiss to his chest and murmurs, “What’s your favorite thing about me?” to help dissolve some of that tight, breathtaking tension.

            Crane blinks at the abrupt subject-change. “Speaking of egocentric –”

            “Two hundred and ninety-two,” she reminds him playfully.

            He sighs indulgently. Lifting a hand, he smoothes the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, eyes narrowed, bewitched. “Your voice,” he says.

            Not what she’d been expecting, honestly. “You’re serious.”

            “Indubitably. I’ve not heard anything so lovely in all my life.”

            Abbie feels the blood rush to her cheeks. “Just…just speaking, or –?”

            “When you speak, when you laugh. I thought I might go mad, when first I heard you sing,” he continues, so genuine. “Were it in my power I would keep you here, just as you are, and beg of you to sing for me and never stop.”

            Abbie’s laughing when he dives in to replace his mouth with his thumb, kissing her gently. “My _voice_ ,” Abbie repeats as he pulls away, chuckling in her throat. “Crane, you are unreal.”

            Abbie’s typically not one for doing a whole lot of talking in bed but _now_ the idea sends lust whipping through her like a lightning storm. Maybe after, when they’ve found a rhythm and he’s more comfortable she’ll see what he does if she presses her mouth to his ear and whispers scalding, filthy things as sweetly as she can.

            She’s not the only one hit with a new round of lust, it seems. Crane’s hands are insistent around her shoulders, pulling her up and closer so that more of her body is on his than on the bed.

            “Are you finished with your queries?”

            “Maybe. If you give me something better to do.” Crane flushes down his neck and Abbie wonders if he’ll do this every time. She hopes so.

            Before want and need overtake her completely again, Abbie pulls back a bit. “One more,” she says.

            “What?”

            “Question,” she clarifies. “I’ve got one more. Before, in the kitchen. Why did you stop?”

            “I am uncertain.”

            He sounds more than a little distracted. Abbie catches his bottom lip between her teeth. “No, you aren’t. Tell me.”

            “Fast,” he gasps as she rolls her hips. “It seemed too fast.”

            “God, _how_? You’re out of your mind Crane; we’ve been doing this for _ages_.”

            And if Abbie has her way – and she will – they’re gonna keep on doing it. Always.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Irving’s car and Crane’s motorcycle are already in the parking lot when Abbie pulls into the bar. It sets a vague feeling of foreboding inside of her but considering that she’s faced down demons, she pushes it back and ducks inside, grateful for a reprieve from the frost. The new year hasn’t been kind to Sleepy Hollow weather-wise and Abbie is so sick of snow she could scream.

            She finds the two of them plus Jenny at their usual table.

            “C’mon, I wanna know. Is it a good likeness?” she hears Jenny saying as she approaches.

            “Benjamin’s is far more accurate,” Crane replies. “Alexander’s chin is too sharp. His jaw was rather weak, you see.”

            Abbie finds them poring over a ten dollar bill that’s been pressed flat to the countertop. She rolls her eyes. “Really? You three don’t have anything better to do?”

            “Maybe we would’ve if somebody had been on time,” Jenny points out as Abbie drops into the free chair next to Crane.

            “Unlike you, I have a steady job that sometimes requires that I stay later than scheduled. So pipe down.”

            “I trust your day went well?” asks Crane.

            “Better now,” Abbie replies, matter-of-factly. “Or it will be after a drink.”

            Needing no more prompting, Crane rises. His fingertips dust her shoulder as he passes her, bound for the bar. If Irving and Jenny notice, neither of them say anything.

            “So you’re here,” says Jenny. “You had something you wanted to tell us?”

            Abbie thinks about waiting for Crane to get back, but oh well. “Yeah. So listen, it turns out that I…”

            But she doesn’t get any farther than that, because Irving makes a noise and sits up suddenly, rubbing his hands over his face. “Sorry,” he says after a minute, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I just…I can’t do this.”

            “Frank?” Abbie says because what the hell, he sounds –

            “I have to say it out loud and damn the consequences. I just – I really thought you noticed,” Irving goes on, shaking his head again. “I really thought you could see it, and I…”

            “Frank,” Abbie repeats, sharply. “What the hell is going on?”

            Irving’s hands shoot across the table and close around hers. “Abbie Mills, I’m in love with you.”

            Abbie’s eyes go comically wide. Then, they narrow. “You absolute _son of a bitch_.”

            Irving laughs and Jenny laughs with him, the traitor. She pushes the bill the three of them had been observing in Irving’s direction and says, “You win. Ten bucks.”

            It takes Abbie a few seconds to realize what’s just taken place. “You two were placing bets on me and Crane?”

            “Oh no, not on if you two would get together. A bet on when you were gonna tell us,” says Jenny cheerfully. “I was sure you two would say something over Christmas. It was nauseating really, watching you guys make moony faces at each other over the turkey.”

            “God.” Abbie drags her hand over her face. “So you noticed.”

            “Macy was the first one,” says Irving. “She asked me how long you two had been a thing. Exact words.”

            “I _knew_ you were distracted,” Jenny cosigns. “Told you I’d figure it out.”

            Jesus. Crane rejoins them, setting a blue long island down in front of Abbie. He takes in the three of them and doesn’t need any more than that. “I see this was a superfluous meeting, then.”

            “You could say that,” Irving replies with a smirk.

            Jenny leans forward, bracing her elbows on the table. “So, Crane. You and Abbie, huh? That’s cute, go team. Consider this your obligatory protective sibling PSA: you hurt my sister, I take your fingers off with my power tools and feed them to you.”

            Abbie’s eyebrows fly up. “Jenny, what the _hell_.”

            “Not like it’s ever going to come to that,” shrugs Jenny.

            “Were I to hurt your sister,” says Crane, “I would willingly submit to whatever retribution you deem fit to enact, Miss Jenny, for I will have surely earned my fate.”

            Abbie’s whole face heats up. “And that’s why it’s never gonna come to that,” Jenny says again, motioning to Crane. “You’re dating Taylor Swift.”

            Irving chokes on his beer and Abbie glares daggers at her sister. “ _Jennifer_.”

            “Who is this Mr. Swift?” inquires Crane.

            It isn’t until Jenny’s doing karaoke that Crane understands and turns scarlet. Abbie tries and fails not to be utterly charmed by it.

            A few hours later, the four of them are bundling up and heading outside to their vehicles.

            “You really knew this whole time?” Abbie asks Jenny, who nods. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

            “Because I knew you would, whenever you were ready. I gotta admit, a whole lot of things make sense now,” she adds, looking over at Crane and Irving who are both standing in front of Crane’s bike and talking animatedly. “Poor Calvin never stood a chance, huh?”

            “Nope,” Abbie replies.

            “And you’re happy, right?”

            “Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it, Jen.”

            “Well then, you know that’s all I need. Although that age difference, when you stop and think about it –”

            “Don’t.”

            Jenny beams at Abbie, knocking their shoulders together. “The two of you were made for each other. Just don’t put me in any hideous maid of honor dresses and we’re good.”

            Abbie’s about to reply when a low rumble reaches her ears. For a second she thinks that maybe Crane started the bike up but that’s not right; the sound is different, fainter and less steady. The four of them turn towards the tree line on the west side of the bar and it isn’t until Crane says, “Lieutenant,” with urgency that Abbie realizes what it is she hears.

            Horse hooves.

            Instantly she’s whipping her gun out of its holster and holding it at the ready, finding that Irving and Jenny have done the same. Her heart is beating rapid-fire but her arms are steady, eyes straining across any little break in the tree line as the sound grows closer and closer until –

            A horse and rider emerge from the trees, heading directly for them. Abbie’s heart jumps up in her throat and she’s lining up her shot when she realizes that the horse isn’t white, isn’t pitch black, isn’t armored like any of the Four Riders’ steeds. The jockey has no weapons brandished and he pulls back on the reins, just as the horse’s hooves meet the pavement of the bar parking lot.

            Abbie squints. “Is that…?”

            “Holy shit,” murmurs Jenny. “Franklinstein.”

            And it _is_ , Abbie realizes as the horse is slowed to a stop. The Kindred ambles down off the saddle, facing the four of them. It grunts a growly sort of sound.

            She turns to look at Crane, whose eyes are wide with surprise. In front of them, the Kindred is slowly raising its arms in a disarming gesture, tilting its skull curiously. Abbie lowers her gun.

            “Okay,” says Irving, slowly and wondering.

            Abbie glances up at Crane. “Coffee break’s over, then,” she says.

            “So it would seem.” He gives her a quirky look. “I suppose it was nice while it lasted.”

            “Oh well.” Abbie grins. “Normal is overrated, anyway.”

            And together, they step forward.

 

END

 

 

 


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